


The Missing Pieces

by Rosalyne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea has a sister, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, M/M, Missuse of CIA but for the right cause, Multi, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalyne/pseuds/Rosalyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story based on Sherlock BBC (TV) with a little twist.</p>
<p>The tittle says it : the missing pieces of what you didn't see in the show. In this story, meet Greg Lestrade and his marital problems, Mycroft Holmes and his need of protecting his brother, Sherlock Holmes and his refusal to acknowledge he feels more than he lets others believes and John Watson the ever commited friend.</p>
<p>Add a few twists here and there, and voilà!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Early Years

**Author's Note:**

> Every mistakes are utterly, unfortunately and undoubtedly mine. This story hadn't been beta because I can't find anyone to do so! So, if there is a mistake left and right, blame it on my french origins and lack of knowledge.
> 
> I still hope you enjoy that story, as it had been one of the most challenging thing I've written so far aside from my book. Every chapter will be devided in small parts and if you've watched the show, you can easily find where those scenes could have taken part.
> 
> I dedicate this to my friend Sara, who also believed in Johnlock.

## In the Middle of the Night

The phone rang. And again. On the third ring, Gregory Lestrade, detective inspector of New Scotland Yard, turned on his right side with a low groan, fetching blindly for his cell. Eyes half-closed, sleep still tightly settled in his mind, he answered the call without looking at the number.

“Lestrade.”

_“Detective inspector, we have a hit and run on 102th Baker Street.”_

It was Anderson. The man would rarely call him, unless it was urgent. Wincing slightly, Greg sat up in his bed, pressing his free hand against the back of his neck as he tried to wake up. “Get Donovan and meet me there.”

_“Yes sir.”_

Without another word, Greg closed his cellphone, sighing deeply. With a quick glance at his bedroom, he frowned. Janet wasn’t home, probably working late. It was barely midnight, and the hospital might be full, especially on a labour day’s weekend. The side of her bed was cold as he moved his hand over the quilt. She didn’t have the chance to come back home yet.

 _Not like it would make a difference anyway_ , he thought grimly while slipping out of the bed. Grabbing his usual uniform, he swiftly dressed up, the numbness of his sleep gone. He needed to be fully awake and aware once on the scene.

Within less than five, he was outside of his apartment.

 

## Hit and Run

The car had left tire trails behind from the body to the corner of Baker Street. As for the corpse of the young man, he was in a bad shape. Without a doubt this wasn’t simply a hit and run. Something in the way his body had been run over made little sense to Lestrade. Normally, such crime would leave the victim on the side of the road with broken bones and a fatal contusion. This one had been run over several times, undoubtedly intentionally.

 _Too many times_ , Greg decided. Pushing his long coat back behind his heels, he knelt to take a better look at the tire tracks on the young man’s clothes, noticing the awkward marks left behind by a car’s weight. His mind was working fast, picturing the murder and how it could’ve had happened.

“Sir.”

Looking away from the body for a second, he met the dark skinned woman’s eyes. “What is it Donovan?”

At her crisped facial expression, Greg knew what was she was about to say before the words left her mouth. “The _freak_ is here.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he said, holding back a sigh as he stood up, glancing briefly at the body at his feet one last time, cataloguing the details, position and concussions the multiple run-overs had left on the boy.

“I don’t know who called him,” Sally sighed, joining her friend Anderson.

“It’s Baker Street, Sally. _Of course_ he’s here,” the other man spitted out angrily before grumbling something under his breath as he glanced behind the woman’s shoulder. “The guy walks around as if he owns the bloody town!”

Their bantering and chatting behind him nearly set Greg’s temper off. The detective inspector was barely able to deal with Anderson and Donovan with his lack of sleep, how could he expect finding the patience to deal with Sherlock Holmes? He winced inwardly, knowing that even if he ordered the consulting detective away, Holmes wouldn’t listen to him. Still, he couldn’t tell him no. He had promised to keep the young Holmes busy, a promise he had made to Sherlock’s brother, the mysterious Mycroft Holmes. He remembered that day as if it was yesterday, and if he had had the chance to choose again, he would have still said ‘yes’ to the request. Well, in fact, the request had been more an order from the British government official than anything else. It wasn’t like he had had a choice.

Pushing the memory aside, Greg swallowed his anger and impatience toward his two fellow workers and decided to be nice, as much as he could before leaving to meet with Sherlock.

“Donovan, go around the block and ask neighbours if they’ve seen or heard anything. Anderson, I want to know what kind of car, tires, whatever you can find about this vehicle that could leave such mark on the victim. It could help us with the autopsy.” He looked at both receiving a nod in return. “And _don’t_ speak with Sherlock. I’ll do the talking. You two would just make things worse.”

When they both nodded to acknowledge his orders, he dismissed them by walking away, heading toward the waiting line to meet up with Sherlock Holmes. As he drew closer, his dreadful idea of meeting alone with Sherlock became lighter. As a shadow to the tall and lanky man, John Watson was standing by his side. They had yet spoken and the blogger was already giving Greg a small apologetic smile, knowing perfectly well how the conversation would go.

“What do you want Sherlock?” sighed Greg as he was finally in range. The consulting detective glared at Greg, offering him a derisive groan in answer. Of course, Sherlock would make things harder, as hard as he could. He expected nothing less. “ _Well_?”

“Can you tell your goon to step out of the way or do I have to make him understand myself, Lestrade?” His voice was hard and angry, as if he shouldn’t have to explain himself. But thus was the way of Sherlock Holmes.

Standing by his friend’s side, John sighed deeply; as always he felt guilty and responsible for the genius’ lack of control and respect. “I tried to stop him, Greg…”

And Greg understood. He did. In front of John’s heartfelt words, he lifted his hand up, stopping the next words or excuses from coming out of John’s mouth. “I have no doubt, John, but…” Turning his attention fully to Sherlock again, he frowned and sighed angrily, doing his best to control his temper. The bastard was driving him _crazy_. “Look, Sherlock. This is a _crime scene_ , not a bloody _playground_! If you stand on the other side of the banner, it’s because I have no need of you. Do. You. _Understand_?”

“ _Yet_.”

The mocking and arrogant tone was pouring out of the young man’s words. He didn’t need to be a detective to hear it.

“ _Yet_ , yes.” Another heavy sigh fell from Greg’s lips. “Go home; I’ll give you a call when I need you.” He turned around, his mind made up; he would ignore Sherlock.

“No.”

Greg nearly stumbled as he stopped walking, his brain freezing at the refusal. Did… did Sherlock Holmes just decide to _order him_ around on that ever petulant tone of his in front of his _own_ people? Oh, this attitude was getting old, and fast! Slowly the detective turned, his patience thin and seemingly non-existent.

So long for ignoring him.

“Beg your pardon?”

Sherlock Holmes offered him a derisive look. “Lestrade, are you deft?” Greg frowned deeply at the insult, gritting his teeth together in rage, but it simply ignored as the genius went on, as usual. “I am going to this crime scene, and your goon here won’t stop me. He wouldn’t be able to stop a child if he tried!” A superior grin marked the young genius’ traits. “His left arm is weak from the last time he had an injury.” The policeman gave Sherlock an exasperated, and John pursed his lips angrily at the curly haired detective. Sherlock and his bloody deduction skills. “Two weeks ago, you fought against a man twice your size, a battle that you obviously didn’t win. Since your injury hadn’t had enough time to heal, you still haven’t recovered your full strength.” He paused, still grinning in self-satisfaction whilst John groaned beneath his breath ‘ _show off_ ’ at the consulting detective’s side. “The way you stand, the shoulder slumping forward and how you keep twisting your fingers together against your pants is a clear give-away of your discomfort. Now, try to stop me from going across this line, and it will take you another two months to recover from what I am about to do to you.”

“ _Fine_!” Greg had heard enough. Frowning, he turned around, waving a hand in the air. “Let him go through.”

Not too far behind the grey-haired detective, John shot an angry glare at Sherlock before following his friend past the security tape.

“You shouldn’t be like that with him. He’s helping you.”

“ _I_ am helping him, John. More than anyone of those buffoons at New Scotland Yard.” With a little self-satisfied grin, Sherlock sped up his pace, his feet almost gliding as he trotted where Greg was standing. His hands digging in his coat’s pocket, the detective consulting leaned forward above the victim and observed.

“They called me for a hit and run, but as you can see…” Greg sighed, pressing a hand against his jaw, feeling his teeth grinding in his mouth.

John was also observing, taking in the scene, his eyes on the young man whilst Sherlock seemed preoccupied by the environment. The consulting detective moved from one side of the road to another, his eyes cataloguing the details, taking in everything they found and pushing aside anything else. Anything unimportant was forgotten in the mind of the Holmes. Why keep it if the thought was irrelevant? There was no reason to.

“I’ve sent Donovan and Anderson on some errands,” Greg said, trying to break the silent tension, feeling as if they had been sitting in a room, the three of them alone, with nobody around them. The air was tensed and he didn’t like it.

“Their… _help_ won’t be necessary.” Sherlock turned toward John, hands back in his pockets. “John?”

As if knowing he was talking to him, John looked up and met his flatmate’s grey eyes. “Hit and run don’t involve multiple run over like that; the young man has his stomach flattened and without a doubt, he was alive _after_ the car ran over him.” The doctor stood up, wincing at the thought more than at the tension in his war-injured leg. “He suffered and died from a blow to the head after.”

“Wait,” Greg said, narrowing his eyes as he walked closer to the corpse, “A blow?”

“The blood pooling around his body isn’t only from his stomach. Some of it is from his head, and the contusion at the back of it is obvious.” John stood there for a moment before clearing his throat, as if he knew his tone had been almost arrogant. A faint blush crept at his cheeks. “Your men probably haven’t seen it, because they don’t move corpses.”

“You didn’t either, John.” They both turned to look at Sherlock, whose body was leaning above the corpse. “Donovan is too busy thinking which pair of shoes she wants to buy next whilst Anderson is checking her out as she isn’t looking – though she totally knows he is doing it – so neither saw the real picture. As usual.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I get it – it’s a murder.”

Sherlock looked up, grinning slightly, “My dear inspector, you already know more than all your squad together.”

The detective inspector couldn’t help but smile back at that comment. Coming from Sherlock, it was actually a compliment. He would take it, as rare as it was.

 

 

## Keep him busy

Greg leaned back in his chair, sighing in relief. The report for the hit and run turned into a murder case was done. Donovan had brought the evidences at the deposition room and Anderson was taking care of the interview transcription. The suspect had been arrested and charged for murder. Turned out the young man had been jogging around because of his work; he was a football player, and out of spite, another young man had decided to get rid of him. Sherlock had learned about some changes that had been made in the team, and Trevor Groove, the victim, had replaced Han July for the main formation.

Without Groove in the picture, July had thought things would end up his way. They did, but it was easy to know the culprit had acted with premeditation, and that he was also drunk when it had happened.

With a heavy sigh, Greg leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight finally off his shoulders. It was this way every time a case was opened, one in which he had to involve the consulting detective for some random reason. It was getting frustrating, stressful and really out of control, very quickly. What was he going to do with Sherlock? It hadn’t been too bad recently, but the early meetings at the crime scenes had nearly drained away all Greg’s energy. Even his wife Janet had seen the change, and it wasn’t like they saw each other often of late. Greg had been busy with the crime scenes and the meetings, whilst Janet had been taking care of the patients at the hospital, doing overtime because of a pregnant nurse’s leave. Even his daughter was complaining he wasn’t calling often enough!

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and began to empty his mind. Things were difficult. Maybe he should take some vacations? He had been thinking of heading south, get away from all this, get a tan and maybe even get pissed, for once. The idea seemed appealing, more than dealing with his co-workers.

Voices chatting louder outside his office broke him out of his daydreaming of a beach and sand, too soon pushing away the feeling of the warm sun on his skin and the company he could enjoy on the beach. He could ask his wife, but Janet wouldn’t be able to go. Alone, at the beach…

His mind was about to drift again when his cellphone beeped. Swiftly, he grabbed it from his desk, frowning as he read the message and noticed the hidden number.

_In front of the Yard. You have five minute. – MH_

As a fish gasping for air, Greg stared at the screen of his phone, mouth opening in surprise. He recognised the initial – Mycroft Holmes. Obviously. What was it with the damn Holmes brothers? Arrogant bastard, daring to give him an order, a _five minute_ warning to walk out of the Yard and meet with him! It was outrageous. Furious, Greg typed his answered and pressed sent without a second thought. He didn’t have time for these games!

_I’m busy, Mr Holmes. Five minute is too short notice. Try again later. – GL_

A little smile formed on his lips at the satisfaction of shooing off the British government. It wasn’t every day that someone could do that! Besides, he wasn’t at the Mycroft’s feet, no matter what the other man’s position was. He could be king of England for all he cared! Greg wouldn’t even give a dime.

The phone beeped again. His smile dissipated in a second. “The _bloody_ git!”

_Make it work. – MH_

 

A luxurious slick black sedan was waiting outside for him. Leaning against the opened door was the pretty assistant, Anthea if he remembered his name correctly, with her eternal blackberry in her hands. He walked closer and only when Greg was a few steps away from the car did she looked up to meet his eyes.

“Please, get in the car detective inspector Lestrade,” she asked before taking a step aside, allowing him to see the empty seat. Her eyes were back on her phone, as her little fingers started to type relentlessly as she proceeded to ignore him.

Though he was still fuming and nearly decided to turn around, forgetting about this episode, Greg nodded, the frown ever-present on his face. He slipped in the car, his eyes adjusting in the darkness slowly as he looked around before spotting Mycroft Holmes sitting on the seat the closest to the driver side.

“Good evening detective inspector,” he greeted, his voice a low drawling tone, the one Greg was now used to hear whenever he had to deal with the Holmes family.

He spared a glance at the other man, noticing the well groomed outfit, a white silk shirt and expensive bespoke suit – probably worth four if not five time the pay of his month. More so ever, it wasn’t the clothes that ticked him off. The way he looked at him, his eyes judging in silence behind the cold mask and his thin lips curled into that snooty smile made Greg eager to leave, or to punch that face until it was gone.

“What’s so important, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in the seat of his car, lifting one hand toward the door without looking at it. The door closed behind Greg. The detective inspector frowned, annoyed twice as much.

“Listen, I am _really_ busy. We just finished a case-”

“The hit and run yes. I am _well_ aware detective,” Mycroft interrupted him, as if the words coming out of Greg’s mouth weren’t important. “Which is precisely why I’ve brought you here.” There was a pause, then a heavy theatrical sigh from Mycroft. “First of all, I would like to thank you for keeping an eye on my dear brother the other day.”

“Not like I have a bloody saying in that matter, do I?” Greg leaned back in his own seat, snorting in defiance at the other man. “You kind of forced my hand on this from the get-go.”

Mycroft smiled grimly. “You know all that is at stake here, detective inspector.”

Squirming in his seat slightly, Greg remembered their first meeting and the way Mycroft Holmes had painted his brother’s problem; the man was an addict to whatever kept his mind busy, which meant either murders, unsolvable cases, difficult riddles, or in some other extreme ways, drugs. Greg remembered seeing Sherlock in the hospital, the young man back then so high to even realise he wasn’t only alone but also tied up on a bed for his own safety. At that time, Greg couldn’t have said no to Mycroft. As much as it appeared as an emotional compromising situation, the detective inspector wanted to save a man’s life.

“Keep an eye on him for me, and on John was well.” Mycroft’s voice pulled him out of his memories.

Greg laughed dryly. “That’s not even an option; where Sherlock goes, John is never too far behind, as a shadow to him.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, his eyes unreadable as he gaged the detective inspector’s reaction. There was a long poignant silent before the British government turned to the chauffeur’s window and opened it. “The Fino, please Marcel.”

 

 

## And It Begins

Greg was stun for a moment, not completely realising what the other man had just said. The car began moving, the soft humming of the engine registering slowly in his mind as he looked into the blue eyes of the elder Holmes. As if to spit him off, Mycroft was smiling knowingly. That took a few seconds for Greg to react, but when he did, his temper wasn’t in control as usual.

“Mr Holmes, stop the car. _Now_.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, his expression well-guarded as usual. “Why, detective?”

_Yes, why Gregory? Why do you want to stop the car?_

He thought about it for a moment, then realised his silence was too awkward and he needed to give out an answer quickly.“I won’t follow you, just because you are from the government or whatever agency you work for.” A little smirk floated on the other man’s lips as he observed Greg with a relaxed posture. It irritated the detective twice as much, but having a bit more control of his emotions at that moment, Greg didn’t let it overcome him this time. “Just tell me why you are ordering your driver to the Fino restaurant, whilst I have papers to fill due in two days.”

“It’s simply for a dinner, detective.”

At Mycroft’s words, Greg felt sheepish. Dinner? “Why?”

“I am aware my usual methods to thank someone for a favour wouldn’t work with you. So, I am opting for a dinner at my favourite place.” When Greg stared at him, curious and slightly ashamed of his overreaction, the British government added, “I suppose I should have warned you first, but…”

“It’s fine,” Greg quickly retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand, leaning back. He put both hands on his lap, feeling the car’s humming sounds pleasantly under his legs and beneath his feet. “As long as I can be at the office before ten.”

The elder Holmes bowed his head with a smile. “I promise you that, detective. If this dinner interferes with your work, I shall make sure you are not punished for it. I promise so as well.” Mycroft seemed pleased by the nod coming from the detective inspector, because he simply smiled, the expression slightly less arrogant, a little more genuine.

The expression relaxed Greg, and he decided that eating something else than a sandwich from the next door take-out French restaurant would be a nice change.

 

The Fino was, for the lack of a better word, majestic. The detective inspector felt small and really underdressed for such place. As they arrived at the large main door, a lady wearing a black, short dress with expensive jewellery greeted them. Her shining white teeth showed behind her smile, shining as much as the rather impressive necklace hanging low around her neck. Greg would feel like a fool for not admiring her beauty. When she gave him a little smile, the darkening on her cheeks getting a little obvious in the dim light, the detective inspector knew she wasn’t indifferent to him.

“Funny how things can be different in another world, right, inspector?”

Mycroft’s words drew his attention back to him, pulling Greg out of his thoughts and imagination. “Huh, what?” He sat down in front of the Holmes brother, wondering what the other man meant by those words.

Mycroft was looking at the menu for the wine, his teasing smirk back on his lips, the genuine expression gone, as he finally looked up to meet the detective’s eyes. “She’s a very pretty lady; I can only imagine why you fancied her.”

“I do _not_ fancy her, Mr Holmes.” His eyes narrowed at the arrogance. “I am married. But like every men, I know beauty when I see it.”

The Holmes looked at him, fixating his intense glare on Greg for a moment before answering with a non-committing ‘uh-huh’. “Would you let me choose the wine, my dear inspector?”

Greg shrugged, not really in the mood to argue. “Why not? You’re more familiar with this… _world_ anyway.”

The answer seemed to please Mycroft, as he lifted a hand up to call for a waitress.

 

The clock was ticking by, and Greg barely looked at it. The first hour seemed heavy. Not many words were exchanged. But when the discussion started about the younger Holmes brother, they had a lot more things to say. The subject was interesting, and Greg decided he needed warnings about Sherlock. If he had to work with the man, he would need to know him a little more.

“So,” Greg started, eating the last bite of his steak, his mouth-watering at the delicious taste of it, “if I am in trouble, and that he becomes uncontrollable, I can request your assistance.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can give you means to contact me. I am available 24/7, and if I am not nearby, I am capable of finding a quick transportation to get to you.”

“If I have someone to help me control him, then business will be easier. John is a very nice guy, but the poor bloke, he’s got no willpower with Sherlock. Your brother leads the game.” Leaning back in his chair, Greg brought his wine glass up, savouring the very expensive but impressively tasty wine.

“I am aware,” Mycroft agreed with a sigh. “John Watson follows my brother because he needs the thrill; he needs danger, the anticipation, the impossible and Sherlock is a master in all those things.”

Greg noticed a change in the elder Holmes’ expression; he seemed to be worried, and tired, as if the years of running after Sherlock, finding ways to break the self-appointed consulting detective out of trouble, had worn him out. He looked almost… normal, human. For once, Greg didn’t feel as if he had done a huge mistake by helping the elder Holmes with his brother.

“He must have been a pain in the arse when younger,” openly admitted Greg with a little smile.

“He’s always been,” agreed Mycroft with a scuffed laugh. “Don’t think you will be able to change him. He loves it this way.”

Lifting his arm up, Greg gazed at his watch. 21:48. His eyes widened. “As much as the dinner was exquisite, I must get back to work, Mr Holmes.”

“Ah yes, I almost forgot.” Reaching for his phone, the British government dialled and waited for a few seconds. “Prepare my car. We will be at the front in two minutes.”

As they walked out of the Fino, Greg felt the soft breeze on him, cooling the warmth left by the wine. He was slightly lightheaded, and to be honest, he felt great. He hadn’t had such a good time in a long while. The elder Holmes had proven to be a fun presence, despite how Mycroft had originally stricken him as the pain in the arse Sherlock had described him to be so many times. His _arch-enemy_ he had once said, which Greg could see why. Mycroft was a shark, dangerous and unpredictable, lurking beneath the surface as a predator ready to pounce, but at the same time, he was a good man, someone who cared about his family.

They got in the large black sedan, Mycroft first followed by Greg. The detective was glad they ended up alone in the backseat, with no assistant in between them.

“It was a good dinner, thank you Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft inclined his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I owe you much more than a mere dinner, detective inspector. Your help is above and beyond beneficial for my brother. But I have no other means to thank you for your service.”

 _No other means? I could think of a way or two…_ Greg chuckled nervously, feeling the wine he had drunk at the restaurant suddenly weight heavy. He certainly hadn’t thought _that_ right now. Did he? He cleared his throat, smiling at the elder Holmes, ignoring the slightly indecent thoughts slipping in his treacherous mind. “Dinner is fine, really. I’m bored of late; my wife is working weird hours and I don’t have time to go out, and make friends.”

Mycroft nodded, eyeing for a moment the detective, his lips sealed and completely silent, before turning to the window at his side. For a moment, Greg thought he had lost the man. Admitting Mycroft was the closest thing he had to a friend aloud was bound to be awkward. The Holmes family had never been very good with feelings, friendships or else, from what he had been told by Sherlock.

At last, Greg sighed and resigned himself to give up the ‘friendship’ path. “Listen, I kno-”

“Gregory.”

The use of his full first name effectively shut the detective inspector up. Blinking lightly, Greg was unable to speak when the elder Holmes turned to look at him.

“It is your name, right?” Mycroft asked, a secretive smile tugging at his lips when Greg nodded, blinking quickly at Mycroft. “Well, Gregory, if you allow me to call you as such, I would like to say-”

“Yes,” Greg cut him off, before realising he had plainly interrupted one of the most powerful men in London. Heat crept up to his cheeks. “I mean, sorry for interrupting. I meant, yes. It’s fine. You can even call me Greg.”

The little smile on the Holmes’ face widened slightly but genuinely. “I prefer full names. Gregory is less vulgar and common. It suits you well.”

_That’s… Okay, now, I am not dreaming. This is plain flirting._

_But, really? Could it be?_

_He’s a Holmes, for God’s sake! Get this out of your mind, Greg… You’re married and he’s a_ bloke _. Your imagination is playing with you._

_Besides, you’re almost pissed!_

Greg nodded and smiled back lightly, ignoring the fighting voices in his head, “Mycroft, is it?” When the other man nodded, he felt the weight off his shoulders fade, but not to tingling in his stomach which was starting to linger for far too long to his taste…

The car stopped. Greg nearly whined like a ten years old kid that his mother was dropping off at school; he didn’t want to leave, not so soon. “When do you want to take a drink, or a bite?” he asked, lifting his hand to grab the handle of the door. The longer he could delay his departure, Greg would try.

“I will text you, or call you if it is possible. I have a heavy schedule of late; my meetings are all over London, and in two weeks I must leave the country for a few days. I’ll see what I can do.” Mycroft nodded, his smile ghosted by the hint of amusement and sadness. “Until then, good night Gregory.”

“Good night Mycroft.” He savoured the last second before moving out of the car. Walking a step back, the sleek black sedan moved away swiftly, as ghostly as its owner.

A shiver ran down the detective inspector’s spine. Somewhere in this brain of his, Greg had realised he had been attracted physically to the other man. It could be the alcohol. It _had_ to be. But then again, he hadn’t had that much… Lifting a hand up, he rubbed face from nose to chin, wondering since when he had started to look at people from the same gender.

Frowning, Greg tried to ignore the voices arguing in his mind, which happened to sound as annoying as Sherlock’s deducting analytic voice.

“I need to work,” he sighed, and turned around to walk to the office’s stair.

 

## Baskerville Vacations

“Thank you, Tanner. Yes, I know what I have to do. No, I’m fine.” With a groan of annoyance, Mycroft hang up the phone. Sherlock had done it, _again_. This time, he had to drag John Watson along in his ploy, much to the elder Holmes’ despair.

Grabbing his phone, he sent a text to his brother, hoping Sherlock would answer him.

_Sherlock, what are you doing? MH_

As he pressed the send button, he could hear the younger man laugh at him. Sherlock had been in the Baskerville facility for far too long. It was bad. If Sherlock had something in mind, which could involve putting the place on fire, then it would end up with a giant fire.

His hope was to trust one man. And Lord knew how Mycroft had a hard time trusting anyone but himself. After sending another text to his little brother, Mycroft pressed ‘2’ on his phone and waited for the line to answer.

_“Lestrade.”_

“Gregory,” the Government official said, a tiny crisp smile forming on his lips. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

 _“Hold on.”_ There was a silence at the other end of the line before he heard muted sounds of people talking, one of them being Greg’s. Then, a door closed. _“Is it about Sherlock?”_

The man surprised him, as always. He felt a sense of pride swell in his chest at his choice; asking the detective inspector to be his brother’s mentor and somewhat handler had been a good idea from the get-go.

“Indeed. What if I propose you some vacations – to Baskerville.”

A short laugh was his answer at the other end of the line. _“Mycroft, I’m back from 2 weeks vacations today. I don’t think my Super will allow me to leave.”_

Mycroft grinned to himself, leaning back in his chair, his free hand already typing the detective inspector’s Chief Superintendent. “I’ll make it work. Go dress up as casual as you can, and I’ll send Anthea to pick you up.”

_“If you think it will work. I’ll be at my home in ten.”_

The phone hung up at the other end of the line. Already, Mycroft was calling another number.

 

The day Greg was back from Baskerville, Mycroft’s sleek black sedan was waiting in front of his new flat. The detective inspector was barely walking in his front door, that Mycroft had walked up to him, his usual umbrella in his hand and a bespoke suit Greg had never seen him wear. It was a darker shade of grey and to be honest with himself, Greg had to say it was his favourite by far.

“You know, your brother is quite the annoying git.” When Mycroft gave him a little smile, as if he knew all too well what next would come out of the inspector’s mouth. “I tried to stop him; all he did was to drag me along in his foolishness.”

“That’s what my brother does. Still, you were there to watch over him; thanks again, Gregory.”

Every time the elder Holmes thanked him, Greg felt an overload of pride fill him. It was now twice as obvious to him what he felt, now that Janet had finally admitted their marriage was not as it used to. The divorce papers were filled and he was waiting on the lawyer to come back to him with the terms. It had been one of the main reasons why he had decided to accept Mycroft’s offer to go to Baskerville.

“You seem preoccupied, Gregory.”

“Hmm?” The detective inspector blinked twice, realising he had been staring in the distance, standing in the door way of his flat. Wincing, he shook his head, his heart heavy. “Come in, I’ll explain if you want.”

Mycroft nodded and followed him, much to the silver fox’s pleasure. He needed company. Being alone in this new flat was boring. The place was empty and cold. The elder Holmes followed him in silence, leaving his umbrella by the door and removing his shoes as well.

“Tea?”

Mycroft made an appreciating sound. “Yes please. Two milk.”

Greg put the kettle on the oven and started to prepare both milk and the cups. He was too busy to realise that Mycroft had moved closer and was now leaning against the side of the counter, right by his side. When he looked up, Greg was startled by the closeness and at the same time, he felt almost undeniably attracted to Mycroft. It had been happening a lot recently. For the first time in his life, he had been allowing his senses to realise someone else than his wife existed. Even though he had been thinking of looking at the pretty ladies giving him unmistakable appreciative looks, Greg had found his centre of attention being someone else.

Mycroft Holmes. The right hand of the Government. The elder Holmes. Sherlock’s brother. The Iceman.

_Not much of an Iceman, really…_

Mycroft looked down, his left eyebrow lifting slightly in realisation. “No more ring.”

Greg shrugged, smiling dryly, turning to his side a bit to look at the other man face to face. “We signed the papers before I left for my vacations in the south; figured it was time to take it off.”

“I know.” That said, it didn’t surprised Greg at all. Rare were the things Mycroft didn’t know. It felt like the man had eyes on the city full time and his knowledge extended miles beyond what any other person could understand. “But I expected you to cling on the… _sentiment_ a little longer than that.”

Greg frowned, pursing his lips angrily. Perhaps if things had been different, he would have but… “Our marriage was over for quite some time, you know _that_. We had no more feelings for one another. We had changed so much… All _this_ was not what it had once been.”

_I wouldn’t have thought about snogging you before… Now I can’t help myself. What would you do it I-_

The kettle whistled loudly, cutting his train of thoughts short. Maybe it was best this way. Things were too complicated to mix in Mycroft in his life right now.

He needed time for himself.


	2. The Reichenbach Fall

## The Fall’s Repercussions

A drink. And another.

At the fourth, Greg decided to set the bottle of Vodka on the table and to lean back on his couch. The phone resting right beside the bottle rang and vibrated on the wood table. Groaning in annoyance, he picked it up and flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.

“’ello.”

“Gregory?”

It was Mycroft. A lazy and slow smile spread on the detective inspector’s lips. “Yep, you’ve got the right number mate.”

A silence followed before the man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “Are you intoxicated?”

Greg shrugged to himself, not realising right away the other couldn’t see him through his phone. His mind was clogged by the fog of his previous drinks. “Perhaps. Had three drinks; at my fourth.”

“Care to wait for me for this one? I’ll be at your flat in two minute.”

Grinning widely, Greg put his glass down on his table. “Sure! Sure thing, Myc!”

 

By the time Mycroft arrived – two exact minute – Greg had gotten a glass and had filled it for his friend. He welcomed the elder Holmes in his flat when Mycroft knocked on the large wooden door.

“Hey, everythin’ alright?” he asked, noticing Mycroft’s serious expression.

“Mind if I come in?” the elder Holmes asked politely.

Taking a step aside, the detective nodded, lazily motioning with his hand for him to follow. Once Mycroft had step foot in his flat, Greg closed and locked the door behind him. “Want something to drink? I have vodka, beer, juice and of course, water. Pick your poison.”

“Water would be adequate, thank you,” answered Mycroft, standing still with his hands behind his back.

As Greg took a glass and filled it with fresh water from a bottle, he analysed the other man. In return, he could feel those blue eyes do the same. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system but the detective tonight felt quite bold and forwarding and less shy in front of the government official.

“You didn’t come to my flat for a curtsy visit or to analyse me,” he finally said as he gave Mycroft his glass. Making his way back to his sofa, he cleared one side and gestured to his friend to sit. “Make yourself comfortable. My sofa isn’t as amazing as yours but still does the job!”

Mycroft walked to sit down and his posture relaxed at the contact of the still rather comfy furniture. He took a sip of his drink before keeping it between his hands on his lap. A long moment of silence passed, one he spent looking at the empty space in front of him before Greg cleared his throat.

“So?” The alcohol effect was fading in his system, and the detective was getting slightly irritated by Mycroft’s refusal to speak.

His irritation swiftly dissipated when the elder Holmes looked up, the shade of discomfort and worry crossing his face just long enough for Greg to see. Then, the Iceman was back to indifference. But he wasn’t fooling the detective inspector.

“As you may know, I have you and John under constant surveillance. It had been set previous of Sherlock’s death and is still in motion.”

Greg shrugged. “I figured you had bugged my flat. As a policeman, I consider it an intrusion in my private life. But, as a friend, I find it… flattering.”

Mycroft looked at him finally, lifting an eyebrow at the smirk Greg gave him. “Why so?”

The detective rolled his eyes playfully, still grinning, “Oh, I just said flattering because I don’t get much attention. To keep the government’s attention and protection so close is an honor, really.”

“You, not getting _much_ attention?” Mycroft’s mouth quirked up in a tiny smirk, as if he knew something Greg didn’t know. Which he did, in fact, Greg was sure of it. “Detective inspector Lestrade, sometimes you are blind and oblivious to your surroundings, as my brother had often mentioned. As good as you are at your job, when it comes down to yourself, too many things slip through your fingers.”

Greg’s eyebrow lifted up in surprise before he shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh well, if some pretty woman is trying to get my attention, she will have to wait in line. My heart and mind is currently occupied and I have no room for anything else.”

Mycroft nodded, not wanting to push more. If he wanted to know what Greg meant, he didn’t let it show nor did he seek for more information. “Not that the conversation isn’t interesting, but the topic I wanted to discuss is rather urgent.”

“Go on,” Greg proposed, his expression awaked and alerted now that the alcohol had mostly faded. Or perhaps it was Mycroft’s observations that had given him the wake-up call.

“I believe we need to keep an extra eye on John Watson. He had been rather… depressed and out of character of late.”

The detective nodded at the observation. “I’ve been worried. He hasn’t returned many of my calls. A few here and there, but he never stays on the line to chat. Last time, he didn’t pick up the phone for two weeks. I had to go at his office to make sure he was still breathing!”

Mycroft paused for a brief moment before turning to look at Greg, his expression more serious than usual. “I believe a visit at his new flat is in order. He’s moving in on Friday, and I will be… undisposed to look after him.”

Greg frowned at this. “You have a meeting?”

As if battling with himself either to tell the detective or not, Mycroft pressed his lips tightly together. He gave the good hearted man a searching look, one that was meant for his enemies whenever they tried to fool him, but only this time it was meant to search for a flaw. Not a flaw in the other man, but more a flaw in his own self, one that Greg could see and reach through to read the real meaning behind his words. Despite seeing the alcohol lingering still in Greg’s system, Mycroft decided to speak.

“I must leave town for a while.” He paused when Greg’s eyebrows lifted up.

“Oh.” His shoulders sagged lightly; Greg hadn’t expected that. “For how long? And where are you going?”

Mycroft’s lips quirked up in his typical mysterious smirk. “You know I can’t tell you that, Gregory.”

The way the other man said his full name was enough to make Greg melt in his chair; perhaps it was the alcohol but he felt like a schoolgirl in front of her crush. Bloody Hell… Doing his best despite being _slightly_ drunk, Greg kept his cool and shrugged nonchalantly. “I figured I’d asked. But fine.” Mycroft seemed to buy it. He smiled, reaching up to Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezed it, finding it bonier than he had thought it would be. The bespoke suits belied the man’s structure. “I’ll watch over John, as a good policeman and friend should. Everything will be fine. Besides, if I need help, I have your phone.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid I will be out of reach this time.” He paused before adding, “Though if help is direly needed, you can always contact my assistant. I’m sure Anthea can help.”

“Ah, well. Okay. I’ll do that.” Greg was almost sad at the thought. He felt his heart sank, but hid it well behind a smile. “A toast to your travel!”

Mycroft lifted his glass up, “Indeed.”

If only Greg knew. Undercover missions weren’t Mycroft’s forte, and he wasn’t young anymore. Back in the day, he would have enjoyed it, certainly asked for more than a rescue mission. Only now, he was forced to drag himself into this.

Sherlock had been gone for far too long. A year and half. Now that Moriarty’s web was completely dismantled, Mycroft believed his genius of a brother should be back in London. Only Sherlock had a mind of his own. Last he’d heard of his little brother, Sherlock was in Serbia. In trouble, of course. Imprisoned. It only forced Mycroft to learn a new language and go undercover in the Serbian Armed Forces.

_Pity. I was starting to enjoy those nights with Gregory_ , Mycroft thought, drinking in the sight of the other man talking. _Maybe once I’m back_.

There was always time for later.

 

## A Helping Hand

John looked at his phone. It rang again. The doctor was unsure if he wanted to answer or not. Frowning, he pondered at how many times he had decided not to today. The number was blocked, and he really didn’t want to speak to a stranger.

With a heavy sigh, he nonetheless picked up this one. He could always hang up if he wanted. “John Watson.”

_“Hey John, it’s Greg.”_

The doctor’s eyes blinked in surprise. “Good day mate. How have you been?” He walked to the closest desk, opening the drawer and started to put his shirt in it as he spoke to the detective inspector.

He could hear Greg chuckle lightly at the other end of the line. _“A little bored! Those forced vacations are starting to lengthen and I’m out of ideas.”_

“I was told about your time off the job; it’s not a suspension, is it?” John knelt down, opening another box, holding on the phone with his shoulder against his hear.

_“I thought they would go that far, but… someone helped.”_

“Ah,” John said, looking at the empty drawer beside him, then at the room of his new flat. It was boring. Empty. Ghostly. He frowned, knowing it would only get worse if he stayed alone. If someone could understand him, it was Greg. “Listen mate, I’m moving right now.”

_“Need help?”_ immediately asked the detective on the line.

The instant proposal stunned him. It took him a moment to answer, and that second too long was enough to put a doubt in the elder man.

_“I can let you move, then pass by later-”_

“You know what?” John stopped him right away, standing up straight, “come by. The flat is at 452C Baker Street. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. I could definitively use a helping hand.”

_“On my way.”_

 

After moving John, they opened a beer and sat in his living room. The telly was on but neither felt like paying attention to it.

“You seemed troubled on the phone,” John said after taking a long sip of his drink. He had decided to wait once they were sitting down before asking the detective inspector all his questions. As the night passed by, he had observed Greg and noticed a change in the man’s temper. Something was off, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe pushing the investigation further would make him forget about other things plaguing his mind. As of right now, it seemed to help quite a bit.

“Did I?” Greg paused, pursing his lips slightly before sipping his beer. He met John’s eyes and felt analysed, just like when Mycroft was looking at him. “Didn’t think it would show that much.”

“Just enough to worry me. What’s bugging you?”

Greg sighed, taking another sip. He then put his beer down and motioned John to do the same. Somehow, the subject he was about to get into could end up with John spouting his drink in his face. He didn’t want that to happen.

“You remember I said someone helped me, with my job.” John nodded, and Greg went on, his hands grasping at his jeans nervously. He refused to look at the detective, feeling as if those blue eyes could read through his soul. It was devastating and quite disturbing.  They reminded him how Sherlock had influenced the doctor in such a way. “This… _someone_ is my troubling matter.”

“Who?” John asked, leaning his head to the side to grasp a better glimpse of the elder man’s features.

“Just… don’t overreact, please.” Greg turned to look in the doctor’s eyes, giving him his best pleading look. When John nodded, he sighed. “It’s Mycroft.”

John’s eyes widened for a second before they blinked. Then, he scoffed a dark laugh. “Mycroft – how _unsurprising_. He’s always putting his nose in everyone’s business.” With a shrug, the doctor gave his friend a sympathising smile. “At least, this time around he didn’t end up screwing things. I’m glad you’re not in so much trouble.” Greg nodded, giving the doctor a little smile, before John frowned, his expression switching from understanding to thoughtful – he recognised that analytic look and felt a cold shiver ran down his spine. “So, why is he a troubling matter, then? Things should be fine.  No?”

The question. He had feared John would push things far enough to speak about that matter. Greg felt like running away. For a moment there, he wanted the earth to open and swallow him. It was a childish thought. Why was he freaking out? Why was he panicking at the idea of explaining to his friend he had a god damn crush on Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes?!

“Come on mate, there’s something wrong. Do I need to intervene in this?” John asked, his blue eyes filling with worries at the lack of answer from his friend.

“Nah,” Greg finally spoke with a shake of his head, his voice slightly queer. “It’s just… weird. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Just be simple.” The ex-army doctor smiled, trying to reach for his beer.

“Don’t,” the detective inspector stopped him, receiving a questioning look from John. “Better if you not…” Greg sighed deeply, rubbing one hand in front of his mouth. How could he say it easily? In front of John’s scrutinizing glare, he took a deep breath. “Alright…” Greg gathered his thoughts, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to face his friend. “I fancy Mycroft Holmes.” When John didn’t answer or say a word at his admission, he opened his eyes and cringed at the surprise on the doctor’s face. “There. Now you know.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” John said at last with a breathless laugh, moving his hand away from his drink. “Did you just say…?”

“Yes, I _said_ that I fancy Mycroft Holmes.” With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the sofa, and closed his eyes, rubbing his palms over them. “Bloody hell, John, I don’t know what to do about it. It’s… I’m just _lost_. I have no idea what to do!” When he looked to the side, he found John staring at him with a serious and thoughtful look on his face. “What?”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

Greg gritted his teeth together, knowing the next thing he was about to say would probably be taken the wrong way by the doctor. “For the same reason you couldn’t tell Sherlock of your feelings.”

John’s mouth opened to protest before it closed again. Pain veiled his eyes as he looked down, and the detective couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. _So I’ve been right. He does feel for Sherlock._ “John, I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine.” John leaned back against the sofa beside Greg, sighing deeply. “I thought my feelings were just my lack of attention. I was happy. I had a friend, someone I could trust, and I had found the thrill, the passion I had lost at the moment I was shot in the leg.”

Greg nodded, feeling as if he was listening to a love confession.

“I never told him, because he didn’t do feelings. Besides, I always said I wasn’t gay, so…”

“You’re not gay,” Greg said, turning his head to the side, meeting John’s eyes with his. “Have you looked at other men like that?”

John laughed, shaking his head, “Nah, never. It’s only him.” His smile faded. “It… _was_ only him.”

“Same for me with Mycroft.”

John snorted a laugh. “What do you see in him anyway? Irene Adler called him the _Iceman_. What’s so interesting in an ice block?”

Greg felt the heat creep up on his cheeks. “I guess once you know him, he’s not _that_ bad. We take a drink once in a while… Or go out to any restaurant I’ve never been to before. I keep insisting I should pay, but he refuses.”

“Sounds like he’s being nice, for a Holmes,” chuckled the doctor, grinning when his friend nodded. “Did you try flirting with him?”

Greg shrugged, moving a hand to the back of his head, pressing it at the base of his neck. “I was with Janet for a long time. I don’t know what flirting is anymore. And flirting with another _bloke_ … I mean, it would be weird, don’t you think?”

“Then go straight to the point.” After a moment, John laughed, reaching for his beer. “Maybe you should go to his place, or walk in his office, and snog him? Gosh that sounds terrible. The idea gives me bad images.”

Greg turned to look at John with an angry glare. “Hey, he’s _not_ that bad looking. In fact, he’s handsome, posh and elegant, just in a different way than Sherlock was.”

John’s eyes widened at the words and he nearly choke on his beer. “W-wait, did you say, Sherlock _was_ handsome? You ogled him!?”

Blushing furiously and indignantly, Greg laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Any man and woman not blind could tell that Sherlock was handsome. Don’t deform my words, Watson!”

The doctor laughed too, finishing his first beer. “Come on, finish this one already. I still got 4.”

“Can’t,” the detective said with a sigh, looking at his beverage. When John lifted an eyebrow, he winced at the words he was about to say and he could already see the look on the other man’s face. “I promised Myc that I wouldn’t drink too much… I kind of overdid it a little.”

“Myc. You called him. _Myc_.” Laughing aloud, John nearly doubled over whilst Greg rolled his eyes at the reaction. At least, he could make John laugh despite his obvious sadness.

“Right, keep making fun of me, you arse!” Greg chuckled, shaking his head.

John made a show of wiping the tears off his eyelids. “That’s too much. D-did you call him that, in his face?”

“Once on the phone… When I was drunk,” he admitted, sulking like a child.

The doctor laughed again, grinning like a mad cat. “Oh _my god_!”

Greg groaned, dropping his head in his hands. “Hey stop it already! You git, it’s just a _nickname_.”

“Yeah well, you gave the British government a _nickname_ for Christ’s sake! That hilarious, don’t you think?” John chuckled still, and despite how Greg wanted to be angry, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Come on, one beer. I promise I’ll leave you alone after this.”

“Fine,” Greg frowned thoughtfully, fearing the worse outcome out of this.

John handed him his beer. “Still, I can’t get over the fact that you like _him_ of all people. I mean, maybe he knows already. Those bloody Holmeses deduce _everything_.”

Gaping at the other man’s words in realisation, Greg groaned pitifully. “Oh, you couldn’t be more right! Bullocks! So if he knows… Why isn’t he saying a word then? Maybe he’s avoiding the subject.”

The doctor reached for his friend and put his hand on the silver fox’s arm. “Greg, he likes you. He pays for you, brings you along to restaurants you can’t afford, and he’s nice to you. He’s _never_ nice. He’s _Mycroft_. And I’m sure he smitten by you, as you by him. I’m sure that he thinks you are dishy.”

Standing up from his spot, John ignored the other man as Greg glare at him. Pursing his lips, Greg followed the doctor’s movements as he headed toward the kitchen.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not gay, John?”

John turned to look at him, rolling his eyes at the words with a smile on his lips. “Only for Sherlock.”

 

Things went for the best for John after this meeting.

He called Greg a few more times, inviting him over for dinner and beer. A couple more times they saw each other outside John’s flat, meeting with Greg’s friends at the Met. John started to go out a bit more, laughing heartedly instead of hiding behind a false mask. He was enjoying the detective’s cheerful company and the beer. With Mycroft gone and unreachable, and Sherlock out of the picture forever, both men found out they were more than co-workers. Their friendship was blooming and helped them immensely.

When it was about to be closing time for the bar, John and Greg didn’t want to leave just yet. His friends from the Met were gone and they were left alone drinking their last beer of the night. Their conversation once more dropped on the usual subject: the Holmeses.

“So, how are you going to tell him?”

Greg looked up across the table from his meal to find John Watson smiling knowingly at him. “What?”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Greg, he’s been gone for like three months now and you’re _pinning_ like some school girl over her first crush.”

“I’m not!” replied the silver fox far too quickly.

“Then if you’re not, tell me why you keep looking at your phone.” John smiled knowingly at the other man’s blush. “He hasn’t called, and I doubt he will.”

“I know he won’t! The bugger said he wouldn’t be able to contact me.” Scoffing off at the thought of not seeing and talking – even by text – to the elder Holmes for so long, Greg realised that yes, it made him lovesick. “Maybe I am _pinning_ , like you said. But not like some school girl!”

“Pretty close,” chuckled John lifting his glass to finish his beer. Then he put it down, smiling at his friend, “So, how are you going to tell him?”

Leaning back in his chair, Greg sighed deeply, frowning in wonder. “I honestly don’t know,” he admitted, grimacing. “I’m… conflicted. Scared, even…”

John nodded. He could relate to such feelings; he had felt them whenever he had tried to face his feelings for Sherlock back then. “Let’s go at the flat,” the doctor proposed while looking for his wallet. “Tonight’s on me.”

Greg smiled, standing up as well. “Thanks mate.”

 

John locked the door behind him. When he turned, he saw Greg had already taken care of his shoes and coat and he was heading for the living room.

“Tea?” the detective asked while opening the right drawer.

“Sure.” John moved to his sofa and plopped down on it, sighing deeply. “You know my place better than I do.”

“Well, I made a promise to Mycroft when he left; to watch over you.”

John laughed, moving a hand up in his hair to mess with the blond wild locks. “So you’re my handler now?”

The kettle on the stove, Greg turned to give a look at his friend. “You know it’s not like that, John. You were falling fast and needed someone to help you. Mycroft tried, but he was scared you would attack him.”

A dry laugh left the doctor. “With the right reasons. I still blame him for Sherlock’s fall. Well, part of it.” John paused, hands nervously grasping at his knees as he looked at his friend with a little smile. “You know what he said, Sherlock. That all this, that _Moriarty_ wasn’t real. That he made this up.”

“I read the report Donavan did,” Greg admitted, crossing his arms in front of him. “I still don’t believe it. I asked Dimmock to continue the investigation. Pleaded him to do it; apparently, the case isn’t closed yet.”

“The one for Sherlock’s…” John cleared his throat, having a hard time to say the word. He refused – still – to acknowledge the death of his friend. “His… his case is, though.”

“They had to. Believe me I’ve tried to stop them from closing it. They looked at me as if I was crazy,” the detective grunted with disdain, shaking his head. The kettle interrupted him briefly, and he turned to fix the tea cups as he spoke. “I could care less what they thought of me. I can defend myself. But… the dead do not speak for themselves.”

When he turned, Greg noticed John giving him a small smile. “He liked you, you know. Despite messing up your name and the brash attitude.”

Greg sat down on the sofa by John’s side and gave him his cup. “Well, at least, he got my last name right!” A chuckle left him as a thought struck him. “His brother called me by my full name. Gregory.”

“Speaking of Mycroft,” said John after a taking a sip of his tea. “You think he ever had someone in his life?”

“From the way the Holmeses speak of sentiments and relationships, I doubt it. He keeps a ring on his right hand, but I suspect it’s for cosmetic purpose, or whenever he has to use the wedding tactic in one of his many… missions. But I could be wrong here.” Greg leaned back, keeping his hands around the warm cup and his eyes on it, as he reflected about his situation. “I haven’t felt this way in… forever, John. Not even with Janet. It’s surreal.”

“I know what you mean, mate.” John laughed, putting his cup on the table in front of him. “I mean, I’ve been dating women all my life. I love them; they are pretty, and you know me, I enjoy the sight of a tall brunette with charms.” He turned to look at Greg who lifted an eyebrow at him, a tiny smirk touching his lips. Realising what he had just said, John rolled his eyes and groaned. “Bugger, why did – I didn’t _mean_ him. But then again… Anyone knowing Sherlock and I would immediately think we were some kind of couple. Always together, doing our work, sharing looks that meant more than words…”

“You’re not helping your case here John,” laughed Greg, grinning wolfishly.

“Shut up!” Despite his exclamation, John followed his friend in his laugh. “I know, it’s really… weird at first. But then, you realise it’s not any… _guy_ you like. But _this_ one. And not anyone else.”

Greg sighed deeply. Both became were suddenly silent, deep in thought, as their mind drifted toward opposite lands. The detective still couldn’t help but think about this lack of experience in such field. He wondered if Mycroft had the same problem.

 

## This Girl, Mary

They finally let him back to work when the word leaked out that Moriarty had been a fraud all along. Of course, he was under surveillance and worked closely with Dimmock, but Greg didn’t really mind. He was back on the field at least and could let his work carry him through the day, distract his brain from drifting left and right on things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Boss?”

The detective turned around, his coat moving around his legs as he finally faced Sally Donovan. “Yes?”

“John Watson is here. Did you invite him?” she asked, motioning behind her shoulder with a flip of her thumb.

“No. The case is solved already. Overdoses aren’t hard to miss,” grunted grimly the detective, shaking his head. He remembered too well the look on Sherlock’s face when he had found the man half-dead, barely holding on his life with a finger, because of drug use. He pressed his right hand on his mouth, rubbing it down his chin with a sigh. The git has been on his mind of late. It could be because John had been constantly talking about it too on their nights at the pub.

“Should I tell Dr Watson to wait or…?”

Greg looked up at Sally, realising he had been spacing out. “No! No… Let him in. It must be important if he’s here.”

She nodded and bolted away, giving Greg one last look behind her shoulder before going. Even Sally was worrying about him of late. Anderson had mentioned something too, that Greg had been spacing out, acting out of the ordinary. Bloody hell! If Anderson of all people could see right through his façade, he could only imagine Dimmock.

Silently he cursed Mycroft’s absence and lack of correspondence for his change of attitude.

“Greg!” John was the second person today to call his first name from afar.

“Hey John, something’s wrong?” He looked at the radiant smile on John’s face and frowned. At least someone was happy. “Judging from your smile, seems like not.”

“I knew the case was closed, and I couldn’t reach your cell.” John shrugged, looking behind at the group of investigators coming out of the barn. “Can we… go talk somewhere less filled with junkies for an hour?”

“Give me two minutes. I’ll fill in Dimmock and I’m free.”

 

They went to the closest pub three streets away from New Scotland Yard. Quiet and nearly empty, the place served a good amount of appetizers, which was exactly what Greg needed at that moment to get his stomach out of the gutter. He had skipped breakfast and lunch because of the case. Somehow, he knew fried potato skins would be his downfall but, to hell with his stomach!

“So what made you so chipper today?”

“I met someone.”

Greg looked up, lifting an eyebrow at John’s words. “Really?”

The good doctor nodded, smiling. “Yes. Her name is Mary. Mary Mortsan.”

Greg frowned, lifting another appetizer up to his lips, taking a bite. Not so long ago, the man had been crying and brooding over Sherlock. Now, he was talking about a woman. “But…What about-”

John lifted his hand up. “I know; don’t get me wrong, Greg. I still have feelings for him. But… Mary. She’s… _special_.” A smile like Greg hadn’t seen for a while formed on John’s face, radiant and beautiful. “We went to the movies together, two days ago. And the day before I took her to the theatre.”

“How long you know her?”

“Maybe… Three months?” John shrugged, leaning back in his chair with his water glass. “She asked me out a few weeks ago. We work at the same place, you know. She’s my assistant at the office.”

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. “Typical.”

“Well, she’s single, about my age and she’s very pretty.” He looked behind the detective’s shoulder and waved. “And she’s here too!”

Greg turned to see the woman walk in the pub. She was like no other women John had ever looked at. Really blond hair, blue eyes, John’s height and a pretty smile, Mary was just as radiant as the doctor. She wore a knee-length black dress and black knee-height boots with a long grey coat. She gave them a hearty hello as she walked closer before moving to John’s side.

The doctor winded his arm around her waist and they shared a soft kiss. “Good afternoon.”

Mary smiled, leaning into him. “Good afternoon to you too, Dr Watson.” The laughter in her voice was cute. It made Greg smile. She turned to him and extended her hand. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?”

“Just Greg, it’s fine,” he reassured, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to meet you Mary. John was telling me you two work together.”

The woman laughed shyly, moving a hand behind her ear to chase away a lock of blond hair. “It sounds silly, I know. I still can’t believe it! Kathryn had been pushing and pushing me to take the job; if I’d known such wonderful meeting was ahead, I would have taken it in a heartbeat.”

“Kathryn?”

John nodded, “Her best friend. She’s working at the hospital as a technician for our computers.”

“She’s a charming woman.” Looking down at Greg’s hand briefly, she frowned realising there was no ring. “Perhaps I could introduce her to you?”

Greg shook his head, lifting his hand up. “I’m not looking for anyone right now.”

“He found someone already,” the doctor added with a toothy grin. Greg shot him a warning glance. “But I’m sure Kathryn will find someone. She’s a wonderful person.”

“And _very_ pretty too. She’s just… eccentric.”

Greg lifted an eyebrow. “Eccentric? How _eccentric_? Because we’ve,” he motioned with his hand at the air between him and John, “had our fair share of eccentric people around.”

Mary seemed thoughtful for a moment, her hand resting in front of her pursed lips before her blue eyes brightened in realisation. She put a hand on John’s arm, drawing his attention to her. “Oh! You know, that friend of yours you talked to me about. Sherlock.” John’s eyes squinted a bit, as if the memory wasn’t all too good, but he didn’t wince or shrink away as usual, Greg noticed. “Well, she seems a bit like him.” Both men looked at each other, eyes wide. Mary seemed a bit confused at first, and even more when they both started to laugh. “What? What’s so funny?”

John was the first to calm down. His hand found Mary’s and he took hold of it. “Mary, it’s impossible to be like Sherlock. Unless she’s a functional sociopath with a disorder for anything that is murder, solving crime, brewing brains and keeping eyeballs in a fridge, I doubt I would say Kathryn is even close.”

Mary shrugged, smiling. “Well, let’s just say, she would have loved his style.”

Greg’s eyes popped out of his sockets, or almost. “That’s a first!”

“I saw his picture, Greg. He wasn’t bad to the eye,” the woman admitted, smiling kindly at John. “He didn’t have your structure, but he was still a pretty boy.” Sighing dramatically, Mary gave her boyfriend a kiss on his forehead. “What can I say? I love army doctors.”

John pulled her closer. “You’re adorable,” he muttered before kissing her boldly in the restaurant, causing Mary to giggle at this. When they pulled away, he looked at her with a sly grin. “So you thought Sherlock was _pretty_?” When she nodded, he turned to Greg, laughing slightly. “Sherlock must be laughing in his tomb right now.”

Greg nodded in agreement. “He wasn’t bad looking, I know.” He ignored John’s look completely, remembering their discussion the other night. “Only, I’ve never seen Sherlock with a girlfriend. Sentiments, he said.”

Mary pursed her lips at this.  “Oh well. Kathryn might find someone one day. I hope.”

“She will,” John said with a smile. “Like I’ve found you.”

“Oh I’ve found _you_ first!” Mary laughed hugging him. “You boys want to go to a movie?”

Greg shook his head. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds together. Work is waiting for me at the Yard; we’ve just closed a case and I can’t let Sally handle all the paperwork. That would be unfair.”

“Another time then,” Mary said while moving to Greg, who was standing up. She gave him two kisses before backing off. “It was good to see you, Greg.”

“Likewise Mary.” He shook John’s hand. “Take good care of him. He needs fulltime attention.”

“Yes sir!” The blonde woman took hold of John’s hand, squeezing it. “I’ll make it my duty.”

“Well you’re in good hands, mate. We’ll talk later. Bye!” Greg waved before heading out.

“I like him,” Mary admitted turning to John.

“He’s a good man. His help with the cases I’ve talked to you about is astonishing.”

Mary drew herself closer, wrapping her arm around John’s waist. “I know you’re still hurt, John. With time, things will settle. Trust me.”

Somehow, he knew Mary had learned the truth about his feelings for Sherlock. Not once he had said a word, but the woman was brilliant. John nodded and followed her outside the pub.


	3. Alive and Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this part, you'll meet Kathryn, my OFC. Also, my take on when Sherlock shows up and how he reveals himself as alive to John is a little different than in the TV show. 
> 
> I sure hope you'll enjoy it though!

## From Serbia with Love

It was Saturday at two AM that Greg’s phone chimed loudly in his bedroom. Sleeping clogging his mind, the detective extended his arm to the desk at his right and blindly grabbed his phone. With a groan and wince, he twisted his body beneath the bed sheets, his legs kicking them off wildly as he finally managed to sit on the side of his mattress.

Bringing his free hand up to his face, Greg rubbed his eyes, feeling the darkness clinging at him. The moment he activated the touch screen, light burst in the room, causing him to pull the damn thing away quickly.

“Christ,” he swore, moving it back closer little by little as his vision adjusted. He was able to see the text message warning and clicked on it.

_Back in London, safe and sound. I hope you’ve stayed out of trouble as I was away. – MH_

Greg couldn’t help but laugh, a grin spreading on his lips. He reached for the keyboard on the touch screen but quickly changed his mind. “Oh why the hell not?” He dialled Mycroft’s number.

The elder Holmes answered at the first ring. “Gregory. Good evening, or good night I should say.”

“Glad to hear you’re back. Had a fun trip?” he asked, glad his voice didn’t sound so tired. Speaking with Mycroft made him feel younger and happier, always. Something he hadn’t felt lately, since the git had been away and hadn’t reached to him at all!

Mycroft sighed at his question, and Greg could see the look on his face; pouting slightly, annoyance in his blue eyes and his nose crunching a little in disdain. A smile floated on his lips; cute and adorable came to his mind at the image.

“Not particularly. I would have preferred my office work, to be honest.”

Greg moved on his bed to sit crossed legs near his pillow. “Sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause before Mycroft spoke again. “I am sorry, Gregory. I realise my text was late. Two AM is not a good time to wake up anyone, not even the police force for a simple chitchat.”

Greg laughed at this, moving his free hand on the edge of his bed sheet, playing with it. Truth to be told, he didn’t mind it at all. What he wanted to say was ‘you can call me anytime you want’ but, then again, Mycroft and he weren’t at this point yet.

Still, he enjoyed hearing Mycroft talking. His voice was enough to make him smile. “You know it’s not a problem, Mycroft. I’m glad to hear you are at home safe. Still, you’re right; it is night time and we should both be sleeping.”

_Preferably in the same bed, but that can wait…_ he thought with a tiny smile.

Mycroft made an approving noise in the back of his throat on the other end of the line. “Would you like to have breakfast tomorrow morning with me then, Gregory?”

The detective’s jaw fell at the offer, his heart beating fast in his chest. He could feel his hopes becoming real at this. “It sounds like a great idea!”

“I shall come pick you up tomorrow at eight.” Mycroft paused, and Greg could almost hear the smile as he spoke. “I’ll have pancakes ready with maple syrup for you.”

“You are _amazing_ , you know that?” Greg said with glee. “The best!”

“I have no merit; you’ve told me what kind of food you like.”

The doctor grinned, slipping under the cover on the bed, lying his head on the pillow as he heard the amusement in the other man’s tone. “Still, it’s always good to have someone spoil you once in a while. Now I can’t wait for the morn!”

“Sleep tight, Gregory. Don’t dream too much about pancakes.”

“Good night Mycroft.”

When he hung up, Gregory put his phone back to his desk and closed his eyes. Life was better. Life was _good_.

 

Mycroft put his phone back on his desk and stood up. It was maybe two AM but he still couldn’t sleep. The other person in his house could not sleep either. He moved to the guest room and saw the clothes sprawled on the bed; white shirts, black pants and a trench coat.

“Why the mess now, brother?”

A disgruntled noise coming from the closet to the left made him lift an eyebrow and move closer. On the floor, sitting on his knees, was Sherlock. Hair now back to normal – as opposed to the mess of long unruly locks Mycroft had seen him wear when he had finally caught up to him in Serbia – the genius was moving his hands through the shoes, throwing them left and right.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, frowning when the younger one decided to ignore him. Typical. Sherlock always liked to get on his nerves, at _every_ given possibility. After a moment, Mycroft leaned closer and looked at what his brother was doing. “If you’d tell me what you are looking for, I could help you.”

Sherlock leaned back as he continued to glare at the mess he’d created. “Where did you put them?” His voice was clipped and low. The genius was close to snap, his patience short. At the lack of answer from his brother, he looked up, his grey eyes were shining with fury at Mycroft. “ _Where_?”

“What more could you be possibly looking for in the closet? All your clothes are on the bed. Decidedly, you wanted to make a mess out of your bedroom quickly; being so far away from home made you nostalgic, little brother?” He couldn’t help but smile smugly at the detective.

Sherlock grimaced at the word. “Shut up, Mycroft. Nostalgic. That’s stupid.” He lifted a shoe up, groaning with disdain before throwing it behind him on the floor. “I’m looking for my shoes. The ones I had when I left.”

“They are in evidence at the Yard, as of all your other clothing.”

Mycroft’s answer didn’t please him at all. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Even my coat?”

“ _That_ coat, yes. I thought you had five or six of those anyway.” Waving a hand dismissively, Mycroft moved away, pacing toward the door.

“Three. But I want _that_ coat in particular.” Sherlock stood up, grumbling low under his breath. “And _those_ shoes too. That’s annoying!”

“Get over it.” Mycroft turned to point at the scattered shoes on the floor at their feet. “You have plenty of choice in there. Stop the childish act and just go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

_Petulant child_. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Well I have an early rise tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to your… _exciting_ activities.”

“Hm. I heard. Lestrade.” Sherlock said while taking the coat on the bed to lift it in front of his eyes. He didn’t wait for his brother to answer, or didn’t even look at him. “You’re going to cook him breakfast?”

“I’ll have the cook at the club do so.” Mycroft noticed Sherlock’s little smile at his words. “What is it, Sherlock? Speak.”

The detective turned to him, looking smug. “If I was a typical brother, and that you were a typical brother as well, I would be tempted to take the phone and call mommy.”

Curious, Mycroft lifted an eyebrow; rarely his brother would say something that actually made him wonder what was in Sherlock’s mind. “To say what, may I ask?”

As if pleased of himself, Sherlock walked to his brother and pushed him out of the doorway. “Oh nothing much. But…” Taking a mocking, teasing, high pitch voice, Sherlock sang, “Mycroft has a boyfriend!”

The elder Holmes barely had time to open his mouth to protest before the door was slammed shut in his face. He stood there for a minute, hearing Sherlock laugh on the other side but somehow, that didn’t make him mad.

Turning around, Mycroft smiled and walked to his room.

His little brother was back. Things were about to get better.

 

Greg arrived at the club, eager to see Mycroft more than to eat pancakes. As he walked up the stairs leading to the gentlemen’s club, the limo pulled away, its low rumbling engine fading in the distance. Before Greg had the chance to reach for the front door’s handle, Mycroft was had already greeted him.

“Morning,” Greg said with a huge grin on his face.

Mycroft’s expression softened as he moved to the side, opening the door far enough so that his friend could walk in. “Good morning Gregory.”

After closing the door once Greg was inside the club, the British official waved at him to follow. “Breakfast is ready, as promised.”

Greg shook his head, chuckling to himself. “You make it sound like it’s all I’m here for.”

Glancing behind him as he walked, Mycroft offered a rather honest surprised expression. “What else would you be here for? Ah, coffee, I suppose?”

Greg caught up to his friend to punch his shoulder playfully. “Bastard,” he laughed, shaking his head, “you make me sound like I profit from your generosity.”

“Oh, I would _never_ say such thing.” Mycroft offered an amused smile at his friend before stopping by the next door to their right. “This way.”

Greg walked in, welcomed right away by the smell of freshly cooked food, fruits and coffee. His stomach growled louder now as he took a few steps forward to get a better look at what was waiting for him.

“Impressive.” Looking at Mycroft walking by him, Greg decided to follow and take the empty seat across his friend. “There’s _no_ way I’ll be able to eat all of this.”

“Don’t worry. Just eat what you can.”

They ate in silence for a little while enjoying themselves before Mycroft looked up from his meal. Unaware he was under the British official’s scrutinizing eyes, Greg continued to eat, a small smile playing around the corner of his mouth. The image left a warm feeling in his chest, something he’d rather deny ever experiencing to any living creature, especially his brother dear. After being away for quite some time, seeing that familiar face in front of him left Mycroft wondering how he’d last through days away from… _home_. Sherlock’s little jab at the _boyfriend_ comment couldn’t be more true than now, yet Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to fall into the pattern of a relationship at this time.

With Sherlock’s return, his life would become a mess. Again. Whilst Sherlock had been away, his eyes and ears had been observing his brother, reporting what was happening to Sherlock wherever he went. Away, hidden in his _manor_ , so to speak, Mycroft had left others take matters in their hands and deliver information. Once Sherlock would be back on Baker Street, his eyes and ears would be useless.

Well, all except a few, whom included Greg Lestrade sitting across him.

“What got you so quiet?” Greg said, breaking the silence.

Mycroft’s eyes focused on the detective, the man’s voice pulling him away from certain thoughts he really didn’t want to have right now. Certain things could wait. Best profit of the current time until the devil came out of the dark to again stir the calmness around them; comparing Sherlock to the devil in his mind only brought another smile to his lips, one he was unable to hide.

“Nothing much,” he answered, looking down at his plate to poke through his eggs with his fork.

Greg chuckled, licking the syrup from his lips. “Well at least, it seems amusing.”

“Sort of.” He could admit being amused by his brother’s return, even if it wouldn’t be an easy one. “How have you been, Gregory?”

Swallowing his foot, Greg looked up at his friend, meeting Mycroft’s serious expression. “Good.” There was a pause before he added, “but I’m sure you already know that.”

Mycroft didn’t hide his amusement, letting the smile on his lips. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I would like to hear it from you.”

Greg nodded, putting his fork down. “Well, it was… eventful. Aside from John’s new girlfriend. Mary.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mycroft agreed, leaning against the back of his chair. “How is she?”

“A lovely woman.”

“And what about work?”

Greg smiled, “Nothing’s changed too much. Anderson’s still annoying. Seems like he and Sally had stopped seeing each other, finally. We have a few new recruits from the academy. A few good ones.”

As Greg fell silent, Mycroft lifted a hand up, “Tell me about it.”

And as they continued breakfast, the detective inspector did so.

 

 

## I See Double

“I know! Isn’t that amazing! But…”

“Mary, you look so beautiful in that dress. I don’t understand why you don’t buy it.”

“It’s too expensive, Kathryn. I’m not rich. I can’t ask John to pay for that!”

John walked up in the store, tilting his head to the side when he reached the two women at the cabins. “Pay for wha-” His eyes widened as he saw Mary wear a knee length dark purple dress with grey outlines. The dress came with a shoulder vest which made it even more stylish. The blonde woman looked magnificent in it. “Wow. Mary that’s…”

“Isn’t she _beautiful_?” Kathryn exclaimed, taking Mary’s hand in hers, a grin spreading on her lips as she looked at John. “ _Please_ convince her to buy it. I’ll even contribute!”

“Kath! I can’t have yo-”

“Mary.” The military tone cut his girlfriend’s argument right away. John looked at her, smiling, eyes shining with his usual happiness. “Take it.”

Pursing her lips, Mary sighed in defeat. “You two… I swear!” Glaring at Kathryn, she added, “I’ll never go shopping with you. Ever _again_.”

Kathryn turned around, hands making signs in the air on each side of her face. “There she goes _again_!” She plopped down on the sofa, crossing her legs. “Still, when John proposes you, you’ll come to me for your wedding dress.” The dark haired woman turned her head to the side, long brown hair falling against her cheek, gazing at John with mischievous dark brown eyes. John’s stunned face made her smile. “You two are just so cute together; perfect couple. I can’t imagine it any other way.”

John wondered for a second if Kathryn had realised his plan. It had been only a few months with Mary, but he knew his heart; he loved her. As the two girls were working on buying a dress for his girlfriend, he went to the jewellery store and grabbed the ring he had ordered. It was in the pocket inside his jacket, so no way Kathryn could have seen it.

Unless she did.

The look on her face told him enough. In fact, he felt _observed_ by this woman. It wasn’t the first time either. She seemed very bright and many of her habits looked ridiculously close to what Sherlock’s had been like. It was fascinating. And very scary. Also, she considered herself ‘socially awkward’ because she hated the general population of ‘stupid and brain-lacking moron chimpanzees’, or the so called men that had been trying to get in her bed.

_Definitively a lot like Sherlock._

“You’re coming, John?” Mary said whilst putting her arm around his, a bag at her hand.

He turned to her, smiling, noticing Kathryn floating around his future fiancée like a second shadow. The feeling of recognition returned again, and more when Kathryn turned to look at him, as if seeing through his shell.

“Where to next?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He was about to say something when Kathryn’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands together with a ‘oh!’ of realisation.

They turned to look at where she was heading and noticed a bookstore. From what Mary had told John, the woman was capable of staying hours awake at night, doing her researches and trying to find anything in a book that could make it worth reading. She could spend hours in a library or on her computer, reading and reading without noticing the clock tick by.

In a way, it was a _lot_ like Sherlock. _Yet again_ , he sighed inwardly.

Beside him, Mary chuckled at her friend’s antics. “I think we better run after her or she’ll stay in there all day!”

 

After dragging Kathryn away from the store, John and Mary left for the office. She stayed behind, pretexting to meet up with a friend. Which had been true, she was indeed meeting up with someone but not only a _friend_.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” she said at the figure leaning against the wall by her apartment complex.

Mycroft Holmes looked up, his umbrella toying at the ground as he took in the woman’s casual looks. “Kathryn, always a pleasure.”

Rolling her eyes, Kathryn reached out, fingers wrapping strongly around the right forearm as he led the way in front and past of her apartment. A chat and a walk, as she had expected. “Always the charmer, love.” She grinned up as he looked at her, her eyes glittering with amusement. “And here I thought you didn’t… _swing_ that way. Perhaps I was mistaken?”

Mycroft released a chuckle. “Careful, your accent is slipping.”

“Oh as _if_ that would keep you from teasing me!” she laughed, shaking her head, looking down at her feet as colours faintly reached her cheekbones. “There’s no way I would be able to hide my French Canadian roots with you. Always the clever one.”

“John and Mary know?”

“Do you even have to ask? I thought you had answers for everything, _007_.”

Mycroft groaned, rolling his eyes in annoyance and clicking his tongue. “ _Please_ , do _not_ compare me to that fool.”

That only made Kathryn laugh some more. “Well, once you get to know him, he’s really not _that_ bad.”

“He’s a danger. Reckless.”

Kathryn hummed in agreement at the description. “It seems to be a type I attract.”

“I wonder why, dearest.” Mycroft pulled her closer to his side as they continued on walking on the side of the pavement.

“The profession, I suppose,” she shrugged before looking to the side, finding herself staring at Mycroft’s profile. “What is this visit about, Mycroft? Not that I don’t enjoy our bantering and chit-chat, but… I have work this afternoon at the hospital.”

“My brother is back,” he answered, blunt and short.

“Already?” With a nod, Mycroft stopped walking, pulling her to a halt as well. “And you want me to…?”

“Meet him.”

Kathryn shrugged, smiling at her _boss_ and friend. “I can do that. Anything else?”

“We’ll… _start_ with a meeting. Then, we’ll see.” Mycroft freed his arm from her hold and walked to the black sedan that had been following them since their apartment. He opened the door, offering her to go in. “Need a drive home?”

“Oh, no. No thanks.” Kathryn looked in front of her, jutting her chin forward to the end of the street. “I left my things at work; I was hoping you’d call today.”

With a little smile, Mycroft bowed his head at her. “Well then, enjoy your walk.”

“I will,” she grinned, before leaning forward and looking inside the sedan, “Hi sister.”

Anthea looked up from her phone, a genuine smile forming on her lips at the sight of Kathryn. “Hi Kath.”

“Take good care of him.”

As always, Anthea nodded quietly, giving her boss a warm look. Mycroft rolled his eyes in return but didn’t say a thing about the antics. He got in the sedan and left with it.

 

## The Dead Walks

Marylebone Road hadn’t been his first restaurant choice but, Kathryn had spoken of the place with high regards. He called after looking for a few other places before making the reservation. A soon as he walked in, his table was ready, and all John had to do was to _wait_. Hands playing with the red velvet box, twirling it around on itself, he replayed the words in his mind once again.

_Mary Mortsan, I know we’ve known each other for less than six months… But, I know what I feel. I know how my heart feels when I’m around you. You’re the light to my darkness. When you found me, I was lost. I was down, in a twirling pit of despair, falling and unable to climb back. You helped. You saved me. Your smile, your laugh, your voice, everything that you are, made this possible. So today, I’m asking you this._

_Mary Mortsan, would you be my-_

“Sir, what kind of wine would you like?”

The waiter arrived at his side with the wine card, offering it to John. He held it there, waiting, standing close. John blinked twice, waking up from his mental speech and looked at it. “I… Uh, I don’t know. Maybe you can help me choose?”

“ _Monsieur_ would like a red or white?” the man asked, his accent British laced with an Italian hint. He sounded amusing and quite happy. “Maybe I could recommend the Pinot Noir, it is _succulant_ and has some _special_ flavours. Something that could bring back memories, perhaps.”

John really didn’t care about the wine. He didn’t want any, but maybe that would help ease the speech out of him. He nodded, tapping once on the card. “Sure mate, whatever you think would be good.”

“A special wine for a special occasion then, _monsieur_. It’s not every day that we have such event in our life,” the waiter added with a chuckle.

John nodded, dismissing him swiftly, not putting more thoughts on the waiter’s words. A few minutes later, the door opened and through it came Mary. Swiftly, John hid away the box and stood up, waiting for her to come by. He smiled, motioning at the chair.

“Hey John,” she greeted him, smiling. She was wearing _that_ dress she had bought with Kathryn. He loved it. She was so fancy in it! They sat down together. “Why the big restaurant? The pub would have been fine, you know.”

“I know but, Mary…” He leaned forward, moving his hand far enough to catch hers and keep their fingers together. “I needed to talk with you. And that type of talk can’t be done in a pub.”

Mary’s eyes widened at the words and she squeezed his hand back, suddenly smiling in understanding. “John…”

He remembered the speech. He had it all in his mind. Gathering all of his courage, John let it flow. He’d fought war in Afghanistan; this _shouldn’t_ be any harder, right?

“Mary Mortsan, I know we’ve known each other for less than six months… But, I know what I feel. I know how my heart feels-” He was about to reach for the ring in his coat when the waiter arrived at their table, holding a bottle in his hand.

“I am so sorry _monsieur_ , but the Pinot Noir is no longer available. May I recommend you a Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape? If I might say, _monsieur_ , it is quite impressive and spectacular.” The waiter’s voice started to change suddenly, the accent dropping and the tone becoming less and less high-pitch, coming down to a lower, and deeper, grave one.

John looked up at the waiter, then at Mary then up again, eyes widening as he realised whom the person standing in front of him.

Sherlock Holmes, in flesh and blood.

“Impressive and spectacular as this, yes,” Sherlock finished, picking up a napkin on the table, wiping away the marks he had previously done on his face above his lips to disguise himself, leaving red marking on his fairly pale skin. As he removed his glasses, there was a deadly silence between them daring for one of the three persons to speak at the table.

Mary stared too, her hand dropping from John’s as the doctor’s hands started shaking and sweating. “John” When her boyfriend didn’t answer, she looked up at the man, realising where she had seen that face before. “Oh… my god. _You_. How is that - _possible_?”

Sherlock ignored her. “John, say something.” He waited, putting down the bottle on the table between them.

A few quickened heartbeats later, John exhaled a breath, his voice a shaky whisper. “ _You_ … You _were_ … _dead_. I saw you jump. Your body on…” Taking a deep breath, the doctor tried to calm but it did little good. His body was shaking from the realisation that Sherlock Holmes, his friend, whom he’d thought dead for far too long, was standing in front of him alive and breathing. “Why?”

“Why is it so important to know that when I am _here_ alive?” the detective said with a low voice, emotions dripping from his voice despite doing his best to keep them away. Seeing John so shaken by this was leaving him taken aback. He hadn’t expected it. He had expected John to be happy. Maybe an heart attack, yes. That would have made sensed. Mycroft had been vaguely allusive to the fact that John had started a new life and had found someone. But seeing it was definitively different than imagining it.

“John?” he asked again. He looked at the doctor’s moustache, wondering _why_ that… obstruction was even on John’s face when clearly, Mary didn’t like it. A little smile formed on Sherlock’s lips as he chuckled, “Are you planning to keep that… _thing_?” He moved his fingers beneath his nose, his laughter fading slowly at the dark look in his friend’s eyes.

For a moment, John just stood there. But when the doctor’s passive face changed to a grim dark smile, that’s when Sherlock knew something was wrong.

Out of nowhere, John moved faster than Sherlock had anticipated. In a matter of seconds, his hands grasped at Sherlock’s coat, fingers taking hold of the collar firmly to drag the man across and above two tables.

The restaurant turned quiet except for the gasps of many and the roar of a very angry and agitated John Watson.

 

They were sitting out of the restaurant a few minutes later – after a punch or two and many pounding of Sherlock’s head on the floor, the manager had kicked them out without any preface. Face to face, Mary at John’s side, Sherlock and John stared at each other. The good doctor held his fiancé-to-be’s hand and glared at the detective as he cleaned his bruised lip from the blood sipping out of it.

“That wasn’t as I thought it would be.”

John sighed deeply at Sherlock. “ _How_ did you think I would react? That I would forget everything, and welcome you back, arms wide opened?”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, putting the napkin down. “Figured you would be upset for a few minutes but then calm down.”

“I _am_ calm!” John screamed, fury taking over his tired features.

Mary put her hand on her fiancé’s. “John…”

“Please Mary, stay out of this,” he asked her, turning to give the woman a stern look.

Mary could only nod, but still kept their fingers intertwined. Like an anchor. But that anchor right now was sinking and all that John could think about was to plaster Sherlock’s face into the bloody wall of the small restaurant they’d decided to enter after a good ten minutes of walk.

Looking at Sherlock again, he glared, his rage not lessening. “You…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “John, I _had_ to. A lot was at stake and you… I couldn’t let you know.”

John inhaled through his nose, taking deep breath. “Who?” When Sherlock kept his lips tightly shut, he pushed further. “ _Who_ knew you weren’t dead.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock began, shrugging as he leaned back against his chair. “It was his idea. Mostly. One or two MI6 agents and… some of my network.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. It wasn’t clear enough. “Sherlock  -”

“And Molly,” admitted at last the detective with a long sigh. “Just… 25 of my homeless network-”

Silently but with as much threat as earlier, John moved the table from between them and jump at Sherlock’s throat, hands grasping the detective’s coat and pulling him up.

 

They found themselves in the street after getting kicked out of that place as well. John stayed far away, ignoring Sherlock and Mary talking. He hailed for a cab, calling Mary as she chatted with the very-alive detective, hoping to cut things short and head home.

“Mary!”

The woman seemed to bid her farewell to Sherlock before following him in the cab. As they sat in the back, he looked at her, wondering what was in her mind.

“Why that face?”

“I like him,” she admitted openly.

The words felt like a cold shower. “Really?”

“I like him.” Her smile became bolder as she spoke again and John knew he was screwed if both Sherlock and Mary got along.

Things would be changing fast soon if he didn’t stop it.


	4. When Trouble meets Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not worry, Johnlock will be part of the story... eventually ;)
> 
> I need to build up to it. Besides, I love Mary! She's an amazing character. I tried to involve her as much as I could in my missing pieces chapters.
> 
> Either way, enjoy!

## Wise Decision

Weddings. Unfortunately, Greg remembered weddings as a nasty part of his life. He’d been happy at first, but later things got bad and he was now dealing with the consequences. After his speech, Sherlock had left, off doing God knows what, whilst John and Mary were talking with their guests as some of them were getting ready to leave. Molly was with Tom, sitting at her table. Her new boyfriend was nothing like the old one – who had turned out to be a psychopath, the famous James Moriarty. This one… well it was a bit strange, because Greg was under the impression of a déjà vu. Tom was dressing up similar to Sherlock. Even his hairdo was oddly the same. It could be something different, he knew, but Tom reminded him strangely of the genius.

Pity. At first glance, it seemed like the young woman was so stuck on the consulting detective that she wasn’t looking at anything else but a replacement for Sherlock.

“Greg, are you alright?”

He looked to his left at Molly, noticing her worry. “I’m fine. I just need some fresh air.” Yes, that was what he needed. A nice breather would do the job.

After excusing himself to the young couple, Greg grabbed his half-finished drink and headed out of the large door to the side on a balcony. The air blowing against his skin felt good but it didn’t wash away the awkward feeling he had been dealing with since the beginning of the ceremony.

It hadn’t been the couple at his table that made him feel this way. Granted, it could have, as anything happening with Molly these days left him with a worried dreadful feeling for her growing lack of sanity. But who was he to judge, really? Janet hadn’t been the brightest choice and it ended up rather poorly. The only good thing that came out of that relation had been Jenna, his little girl. His nineteen years old girl, a bright and very intelligent young woman, more than Greg could have ever hoped for in a child.

It hadn’t been Sherlock’s completely insane speech either. It could have been, really, because the genius had been completely out of his mind. Still, he had enjoyed the stories, especially the ones between John and him. These two never ceased to amuse him. That reminded him why Greg kept inviting them on his cases. It wasn’t that Sherlock’s intellect and John’s good eye were essential to his cases but mostly their presences. He couldn’t go without that, not ever, he thought.

Looking at his drink, Greg reminded himself that he shouldn’t be drinking that much. Alcohol didn’t help, it never did. Someone had reminded him that fact, and he had made a promise to that person not to drink so much anymore, a promise he was about to break.

With a sigh, he put the glass over the fence and tilted it sideways, watching the golden liquid drip in a fountain of sour memories down to the grass bellow. “No more.”

“Wise decision, Gregory.”

Greg nearly dropped the glass. He turned around, eyes wide in realisation. “Mycroft! What are you doing here?” He smiled, walking to the elder Holmes, stopping himself a feet away, realising a hug would be too friendly and a handshake would appear as too formal. Instead, he put his glass on the small table beside him and rested his hands on his hips. “I thought you were staying at home?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I was supposed to. Only, I figured John would want me here, even if he loathes me with a passion.”

Greg released a small chuckle, shaking his head. He took in Mycroft’s outfit; a suit, one of his best – the dark grey one – and a white shirt. With his umbrella in his hand, as usual, the British government official appeared as menacing as usual. It would have been so for anyone else, but not to Greg.

One word crossed Greg’s mind: _delectable_.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling his cheeks grow warm, suddenly glad that he was outside with the darkness of the night hiding his uneasiness, and that he was standing a fairly far range out of Mycroft’s scrutinizing eye.

“He was mad at you, but I think he understands now.”

Mycroft sighed, looking down at his umbrella as he tilted it up between them. “Well, I am here and alive, without a blackened eye after giving my best wishes to the happy and newlywed couple.” Smiling knowingly, he looked up at Greg again. “I consider this a silent understanding from the good doctor.”

It made Greg laugh again. “It’s a shame you didn’t arrive earlier to hear Sherlock’s speech. It was really good. A bit… _crazy_ , but what else would you expect from him?”

The elder Holmes lifted an eyebrow in wonder. “The speech you helped him with?”

Greg waved a hand in front of his face, scoffing. “Yeah well! The bloody git changed _most_ of it. I barely recognised my ideas! I suppose they were in there, somewhere.”

“If the speech was good for the guests, I have no fear you tutored him well, as usual.”

Was Mycroft complimenting him? Well, it wasn’t a first but still, the warm feeling in his chest reminded Greg why he loved the man so much.

_Love_.

A shiver ran up his spine at the thought. He hadn’t thought of _love_ with Mycroft. Attraction, maybe. Lust, okay, that he knew. Love, on the other hand, it seemed a little… too quick.

_Snap out of it Greg! You’ve known the man for like, what, seven, maybe even eight years? Don’t be such a child!_

Why was his mind sounding like his daughter suddenly?

“Gregory?” Greg looked up at Mycroft, meeting his gaze. “Something’s worrying you.”

It wasn’t a question, more so a statement. No use denying it at this point. He was worried. “You could say that.”

A silence passed between them, short and awkward, broken only by the sound of people’s laughter inside the chapel. Greg released a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging. What was he thinking? Love… How stupid of him! Mycroft saw him as a friend, nothing more. Some time ago, before Sherlock’s fall, John had said that Mycroft could see him as more than a friend. Maybe the doctor had seen wrong in his deduction.

Why would a man of Mycroft’s rank ever considered to date a half-broken nearly fifty years old detective inspector? Unthinkable!

“Tell me,” Mycroft said, his tone insistent but not forceful, still leaving no doubt that he wanted an answer to his question.

Looking down at the space between them, Greg shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets. “I… I don’t want to talk about it Mycroft.” He glanced up, meeting Mycroft’s gaze. The determination in his eyes was frightening.

“Well then, if you refuse to speak,” the posh man began, taking a deep breath before exhaling it. “I have a confession to make.”

Greg frowned, tilting his head to the right. “Sorry?”

“And I would prefer if you stayed quiet until I’m done.” When Greg nodded, Mycroft moved on. “If I came here tonight, it was partially because of John and Mary, for their wedding. Part of me wanted to congratulate them. Another part wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock, as usual, even if I could have done so from afar at my desk.” They shared knowing smiles; it was old news to Greg that Mycroft could use CCTV for his own end. Nothing done with harm, only for the greater good, he thought. “But I find myself… distracted lately. And the wedding has nothing to do with it.”

Greg felt his chest constrict. His heart suddenly picked up the pace as his imagination ran at a faster pace. Could it be…?

Mycroft looked in the detective’s eyes blankly, as if he didn’t want to reveal a thing. A look Greg was used to see after so many years of dealing with the posh man. Sometimes, he could see _something_. Not so much of an Iceman, but… right at this moment, Mycroft was doing a marvellous job at hiding his thoughts.

“I was eager to come here so we could speak, Gregory.” His umbrella remained still in his hand, a little bit like Greg’s heart stopped moving in his chest and his breathing got caught up in his throat. “I find myself… looking forward to our meetings. More than I should, I admit, but I am.”

Greg breathed out loudly, his chest’s tightness leaving him suddenly, as if a heavy pressure had been lifted off by Mycroft’s words alone. “Can I…?”

A moment of hesitation. But Mycroft nodded.

“I share the same concerns, Mycroft.” His voice was a low whisper. Greg stood still, lips tightly pressed together as he saw the still mask on the British government official’s face fall. A light shone in Mycroft’s eyes: contentment. Greg licked his lips. To hell with it. He had to ask. He had to do it! “Can I just kiss you right now?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted up in surprise. He nodded yet again.

Then Greg acted swiftly, more than he had ever done before.

Closing in the distance between them with a few steps, Greg found himself reaching up at Mycroft’s face, grasping the man’s jaw with both hands, as he pressed their lips together. It wasn’t slow and sweet. It was hard and filled with a repressed longing, a need to finally, _yes finally_ , have what he had been craving for.

It was a matter of seconds before one arm circled around the detective’s lower back as the lips pressed upon his opened up for him to taste. With a groan, Greg took the opportunity and allowed the kiss to grow intimate. The positive sigh he received from his partner was enough to fuel his actions. He let go of Mycroft’s jaw, knowing the man wasn’t about to run away on him now, and slid one hand behind his neck to take a firm hold there, the other resting against Mycroft’s squared shoulder.

Their lips moved in sync as they continued the kiss until a loud noise inside the chapel startled them both enough to pull apart, but not away. Mycroft half-turned, keeping the detective inspector close against him with his hand holding the umbrella – how he managed to take hold of Greg’s coat at the same time was a mystery to him, but he did. Greg glared at the noise, but saw nothing behind the curtains.

With a sigh, he returned his attention to Mycroft to find the man looking at him, smiling. A _real_ smile.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Greg said with a little grin.

“My car is waiting at the front. I’m bringing you home.”

_Home_. Warmth spread in Greg’s chest. “You knew I would do that.”

Mycroft released a small chuckle. “I had hope. I certainly didn’t expect such kiss, though.”

Leaning forward, Greg pressed a soft kiss on the posh man’s lips. “Me, surprising you? Let’s hope I can manage such feat once again tonight.”

As Mycroft cleared his throat, Greg grinned. Not even the darkness of the night could hide the colours suddenly rising at the other man’s cheeks.

 

Mycroft was the first to wake up the morning after. His skin tingled still, as if the imprints left behind by Greg’s hands would forever stay on his skin. He sat in his bed, glancing at his partner. Greg was fast asleep, his lips parted and his hands hidden beneath the blanket resting on top of his broad frame.

A shiver ran over Mycroft’s body. Memories of fingers pressing against his hips, hands biting in his neck and shoulders, two bodies brushing together, lips and tongues exploring curves and crevices rose in his mind at the view of his lover. Greg’s presence, albeit soothing, was also tormenting his deepest, basest instincts.

For so long, the British government official had ignored his need. When Greg had decided to take the matter in his hands and successfully made him forget his name, Mycroft gave up his logic.

Whereas he would have said before ‘caring isn’t an advantage’, the man of power that he was became nothing but a human with a heart beneath the masterful hands of Gregory Lestrade.

A soft groan forced him to look down and meeting sleepy brown eyes.

“Hey,” Greg whispered, turning onto his back. He looked at the time and sat in the bed to face Mycroft. “Something’s wrong?”

Mycroft shook his head, his hand instinctively reaching for Greg’s closest one. Their fingers pressed together as he held it. “I was looking at you.”

Greg smiled, leaning his head down to kiss the British government official’s forehead softly. “We don’t have to be up in the morn. You should sleep, love.”

Without realising it, Mycroft smiled at the nickname. Greg noticed, though. He inched closer to the younger man and put both arms around his waist. “Come here,” he ordered, dragging his lover to him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

A lot was going on. Worries. Happiness. Fears. Darkness. He couldn’t really figure out why he was torn between all this.

“I’m here,” Greg whispered against his ear, pressing a kiss in the hollow of his neck. They leaned each other’s forehead against the shoulder in front of them.

Greg was there for him. There was no need to fear, to be scared of the consequences. In fact, he would make sure the day after to secure the detective’s flat and office and also assign a new detail to watch over him. He feared their relationship would cause the detective pain if it came out in the open and his life could be at risk. If only Greg knew how many enemies Mycroft had, he wouldn’t argue with his choices of protection.

“Feeling better?” asked Greg after a few minutes.

“Yes. Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft pulled back from the embrace, looking in his lover’s smiling eyes in the darkness.

“Let’s sleep now, alright?”

They laid beneath the covers and closed their eyes.

Yes, everything would be fine.

 

## Definitively Double

The front door of 221B opened and Mary Mortsan walked in, Kathryn Cole in tows. Both women were chatting, the take-out food from the Thai place at the corner of the street in their hands. John and Sherlock were sitting in the living room, the first one typing on his blog about the bomb accident in the subway, and Sherlock reading the papers with disinterest.

John was the first to lift his head up, smiling at his two friends. “Oh hello! Didn’t expect you to invite Kathryn over.”

“I didn’t either,” Mary said with a chuckle before giving both men their meals as they walked in the living room. “She was at the Thai place and well, I figured I’d bring her along for a little chat.”

“Hm.” Sherlock said, looking up briefly from his paper, eyes taking in the new woman standing in the room before he looked down again. He didn’t say a word.

John waited, but heard nothing. In fact, it scared him. Sherlock _always_ said a comment. _Always_. No matter who he was looking at, he would find something to say and make it so obnoxious he didn’t want to have to deal with them.

“Less talking, more eating,” Kathryn said with glee while taking her food. “I’ve had barely anything last night; too caught up with work. So I’m going to savour my favourite meal.”

She sat down next to Mary, who took place on the large sofa where people sat for interrogations. They opened their boxes and started digging in. John was even more curious when he noticed Sherlock hadn’t moved from his crossed legs position and that the newspapers were still in front of his face.

“Sherlock?” The detective answered him with a noncommittal ‘hm’ and John sighed, “Your food will be cold.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock closed his journal and put it aside before uncrossing his legs and lean to his food. “Is he always like that with you, Mary?” the detective asked, not looking up at the blond woman from his food. “Because that’s how he is; he’s like a mother hen!”

Kathryn swallowed, bringing a hand up to her mouth to cover her smile as Mary coughed lightly in embarrassment. “I… I like him that way.”

“Liar.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened at the words, and she noticed an exchange of look between Mary, John and Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” the doctor exclaimed through clenched teeth. “We have a guest.”

“So?” Sherlock looked up, meeting Kathryn’s unwavering eyes, grey meeting black-brown eyes. “She knows what she’s getting into if she’s here.” He was pleased when the woman smiled at him, and he noticed it; glee, appreciation and amusement that shone in her eyes.

“Please, Mr Holmes,” Kathryn said, licking her lips, “ _read me_.”

“Kath…” Mary started, feeling nervous at her side.

John was about to open his mouth to say something, but didn’t have time as Sherlock started with his long description.

“Kathryn Cole. Twenty-nine. You like cats and dogs, but more cats, because they are sly and independent. You’re alone, no current man in your life. Had a few boyfriends, but obviously, they mattered less to you than your books and computers, or the work at the hospital. Or is it _another_ work? _This_ work is more important. You spend hours in front of a computer for answers, looking for ways to learn more about hacking and breaking through firewalls. You have skills that not many have and that many are looking for. Also, you’re foreign; American, perhaps. No. Canadian. The accent is there, light, but you could pass for French. If I look for a woman of your name in the same age and same description, I would not find anyone, because _Cole_ isn’t your last name.” Leaning forward, hands in front of his mouth, Sherlock observed the woman as she leaned the same way, giving him an amused look. “Who would we find?”

Kathryn chuckled, licking her lips slowly, looking immensely pleased with herself. “Whaters. My last name is Whaters. But I use the name Cole, my mother’s. Let’s stick with it.”

“Kathryn?” Mary said in a whisper, surprised.

The younger woman looked at her friend, giving Mary an apologetic look. “He’s right. All of it is true. I’m French Canadian and British, in fact.”

“You looked her up?” John asked, looking at the detective.

Sherlock dug back in his food, smiling. He didn’t say a word. Kathryn laughed, eating as well.

“I don’t mind. If Sherlock Holmes finds me interesting, I am quite flattered.” She leaned back against the couch, looking at the detective as he gazed at her with a lifted eyebrow. “And yes, Mr Holmes, I had boyfriends. But not only didn’t they matter less than books or my… _work_ , but they were also complete brainers. Idiots. I don’t deal well with morons. I have no time for them.”

Sherlock took his food and leaned back in his chair, observing the woman sitting across him. “Too many out there.”

“The IQ of a chimpanzee is higher than most of them baboons.”  She grinned, eating again.

Sherlock answered with a positive humming sound.

John moved his gaze from one to another, noticing they were staring, and eating.

The same meal.

It was as if you put a mirror between them and they could stare in their own reflection.

_I’m really seeing double now…_ He was slightly tensed and also, jealous. Yes, he had Mary. Still, he had feelings for Sherlock, feelings that would stay there forever, or so he thought. Mary knew it, even if he had never mentioned them clearly. Kathryn didn’t know, though. Or maybe she did. If she was like Sherlock, maybe she knew, and she had been playing him all along…

“Mary?” John said finally whilst standing up. He motioned with his head to follow him.

The blonde woman put her meal down and they moved up to the stairs, leaving the other two along. Mary looked at him, confused.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Didn’t you see?” he asked, his voice low as well. “They are _connecting_. I’ve never seen Sherlock even connect with someone like that. Not even The Woman.”

Mary pursed her lips, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s trouble ahead.”

“Maybe not,” John said swiftly before he suddenly thought about it clearly; Sherlock always solving crimes and Kathryn’s hacking skills mixed together. He winced. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Let’s go back down.” Mary said before taking his hand and moving down the stairs.

They walked down and met the other two at the front door, Sherlock putting his coat on and Kathryn standing beside him, her grey hat on top of her head. Her long brown hair floated cutely around her oval face and jaw, covering her neck and shoulders.

“Where are you going?” John asked, not particularly to one or another.

“We need milk for the tea,” Sherlock said with a tight smile, putting his scarf on.

“I can get it later,” Mary proposed with a shrug.

Kathryn reached up to put her hand on Mary’s, which was resting on the long rail of the stairs. “Don’t worry about it! I know my way around here and besides,” she turned, moving closer to the door where the detective was standing, holding the doorknob, “Sherlock will be my guide. I want tea, but without milk, it’s not good. So…”

Sherlock smiled at the other two with his victorious ‘I won, you lost’ smirk and grabbed Kathryn’s hand with his free one. “We shall be back.”

“Don’t be gone too long!” John screamed after them when he caught up the door to look outside.

“Yes mom!” yelled back Kathryn with a giggle in her voice.

John moved back inside, sighing. “They took off running.”

“Not good.”

“No, not good,” agreed the doctor.

 

“Milk, milk, milk…” Kathryn chanted as she reached up the alley and opened the door. Smiling brightly, she caught the cartoon and held it to her chest before closing the door. When she turned, a gasp of surprise escaped her. Sherlock was right there, standing before her, a few breathes away. Lifting the milk cartoon up, she smiled. “Now, we can get our tea.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, giving Kathryn a tiny smug smirk. “Is that _all_ we came here for, Miss Cole?”

Leaning back against the cold door of the fridge, Kathryn returned the look. “Mr Holmes, are you trying to seduce me?”

Sherlock closed in the distance, bringing his mouth a few inches away from Kathryn’s and spoke low, loud enough only for her to hear. “I am merely stating the fact that we came here to get away from the house where Mary and John are. It is obvious you have in mind something else than simply a quest to get milk for our tea.”

“You’re right.” Kathryn pouted slightly, keeping the milk close to her side, enjoying their closeness. “I was sent by your brother to watch over John.”

Sherlock nodded, taking a step back to put some distance between them. “I figured Mycroft would have a watchdog keeping an eye on him,” he said, disdain in his tone as he spoke his elder brother’s name.

“Despite your hatred for your brother, you _know_ he was right. Doctor Watson was self-destructive at first when you… _left_. Mister Holmes knew, and _something_ had to be done.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she put the milk on top of them sideways. “I hope you don’t mind Mary; it was my idea.”

“Are you British intelligence?” When she shook her head, Sherlock frowned, thinking. “FBI?”

“CIA,” Kathryn whispered, her nose wrinkling a bit at the mention. “I’m also part of… _Mycroft’s inner circle_ at the MI6. But let’s keep this quiet. Stick to the fact: I’ve been sent by your brother to watch over John, and that’s it.” After a pause, she sighed deeply. “They don’t need to know more.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m back now. So why are you still here?”

A tiny shy smile formed on the woman’s lips at this. “I’ve always been interested in London. All my life I’ve travelled, but it’s the first time I’ve lived here.” Leaning forward, closing in the distance between them, she narrowed her eyes playfully at him. “Besides, you’re _so_ much more interesting than any of my missions. I asked your brother to let allow me to stay, just a little longer. I know you work in duo with John but with Mary being around, he’s going to be… _busy_.”

Sherlock knew it was another reason, probably his brother dear once again putting his nose in business he shouldn’t be worried about. “What makes you think I need a new… partner.” Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a tiny mischievous smirk.

“You know of my past. I can be an asset to your work, and will _never_ get in the way.”

He thought for a moment about it, knowing that John would indeed be away, working on his relationship with Mary. If something happened, he could certainly use another pair of hands or eyes, though they wouldn’t be that necessary. He had worked alone before. Why was he looking at the possibility of finding a new partner for the cases?

Maybe because Kathryn had been right; Sherlock had read her file, and judging by the recent woman’s reactions around him, she wasn’t even fazed by his attitude or personality.

“We’ll see how you can help, and go from there,” Sherlock agreed, putting his hands deeply in his pockets. “Now, let’s go pay for the milk.”

“Right. Milk.” Smirking in delight, the woman trotted her way through the alley toward the cashier, knowing Sherlock would follow behind.

 

John nearly jumped up when he heard the front door opened. Mary was the first to stand. She gave him a worried look, but any attempt to say something was interrupted my laughter coming from the stairs. A few seconds later, Kathryn walked in, smiling brightly, holding a bag.

“Milk,” she said with a triumphant grin. “Tea, anyone?”

“I’ll go help you with that,” Mary said while taking the woman’s arm.

Kathryn turned to give a tiny smile and blow a kiss in the wind at Sherlock before turning around to follow her friend. Sherlock walked in the room and plopped down on his chair, gazing at John with a tiny smile on his lips.

“Go on. Indulge yourself with your questioning,” the detective spoke after a few seconds of silence between them, his voice low and deep as usual.

“You barely know her,” John said, frowning lightly. “I mean, she’s nice, and she’s Mary’s friend.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She’s also my brother’s watchdog.”

John gaped, “W-what?”

“She knows Mycroft, and she’s also working for him. Her main job was to keep an eye on you and make sure you weren’t attempting suicide before I came back from my… trip.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened on the chair’s arms, a little more than normal, as he spoke.

“Still… You two seem _close_.” He couldn’t help but be jealous of this newly formed bond between these two.

“Why does this surprise you, John?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in a smirk.

John rolled his eyes, huffing angrily. “Because Sherlock Holmes _doesn’t_ do friendship. Or relationships.”

The detective’s fingers played with the edge of the chair’s arms as he observed his friend. A wider grin formed on his lips as he realised what was happening. “You’re jealous.”

John nearly had a heart-attack at the word. For a moment he stood still, wanting the world to collapse. Maybe Hell could swallow him whole? That would do the trick. Nothing of this happened, obviously. Instead, he kept on staring in the shining silver eyes of his friend.

“You’re insane.”

“John, it’s perfectly normal,” Sherlock said with a shrug, looking toward the door. “You think that woman will take away your _best friend_.”

“That’s not-” He stopped talking when both women walked in with coffee and milk. Mary sat down beside him and smiled, handing him a cup.

Kathryn handed Sherlock his cup and was about to move away to the chair next of the detective’s.

“Mary,” Kathryn said, sighing deeply. “I think we need to talk.”

“Something’s wrong?” the blonde woman said, wide eyed.

Kathryn took deep breath, steadying herself for the incoming blow. “I met you because I was on a mission. I was sent to the hospital by Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes, to look over John Watson. Then, I noticed he had some kind of feelings for you so… I figured I’d make you work with him, so he wouldn’t be so alone anymore. He seemed your type, and I was apparently right.”

Mary smiled, knowing that it had been a trick but couldn’t help but thank the fate. “You were there at the right moment, no matter what name you have or what you are.”

“Friends?” Kathryn said with a shy smile, “because I really like you, you know. You’re awesome Mary.”

The blonde woman laughed, drinking her tea. “Yes, friends.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. “Sentiments.”

Kathryn turned to him, nodding in return. “Do I recall you saying you had _one_ friend, Sherl?” Lifting her tea cup to her lips, Kathryn winked at the doctor as she drank.

John held back a chuckle at the look on his friend’s face. If Sherlock was good at deducing and finding weak points in other’s armours, Kathryn seemed to share a very similar talent. It was amusing, but also left the doctor with worry. If these two were to work together, the world might be a safer place for some, but for people like him, not so much.

 

Mary and John left 221b a few hours later. Kathryn was still there, reading the papers, as Sherlock played his violin. The soothing music made her feel better, calm and at peace. The genius seemed lost in his music too as he played for nearly three hours without stopping. Not once Kathryn moved to interrupt him.

As the last of the music ended, Sherlock lowered his violin and turned around to put it back where it belonged. He looked up, his eyes falling on Kathryn. She was on the couch, lying with her eyes closed and a blanket covering her body.

“Kathryn?”

The CIA agent groaned as she woke up, startled a little. She rubbed her eyes, sitting up slowly. “Sherlock… Something’s wrong?”

He moved to his chair and sat down. “You were sleeping on the couch.”

She smiled, sitting up to lean against the back of the sofa. “It’s comfy, and I liked your music. It was amazing.” Slowly, Kathryn stretched her arms, yawning again. “Do you mind if I crash here? I’m tired and don’t feel like taking a cab to my flat.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You can take the couch or the extra bedroom if you like. John use to sleep in there. Mrs Hudson had changed the sheet since then, don’t worry.”

Kathryn smiled and stood up, leaving the blanket behind her on the couch. She stopped when reaching Sherlock’s chair. With one hand, she reached to his jaw and caressed it, tentatively at first. When the detective didn’t push her, Kathryn leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you Sherlock,” she whispered before moving to the stairs and climbing them.

Sherlock looked at Kathryn leave, his mind drifting to what she had just done.

 

The morning came and Kathryn woke up, her body complaining slightly at the change of environment. She wasn’t used to this bed, but it was comfortable. Silently, she moved to the bathroom and took a shower. Then, she dressed up with a t-shirt she had found in the drawer and a pair of loose pants, clothes that had once belonged to John, undoubtedly. They were too big for her, but she managed.

When Kathryn reached downstairs, the smell of tea was in the air and she could hear someone humming in the kitchen. She made her way there silently.

An old woman was standing near the table, making tea. She looked up when Kathryn walked inside, startled at the new presence. “Oh dear. I didn’t know Sherlock had a girlfriend!”

Kathryn opened her mouth, slightly stunned. “I… am not his _girlfriend_. He allowed me to crash here. I’m Mary’s friend, Kathryn Cole.”

“Mrs Hudson!”

Kathryn’s eyes widened when Sherlock yelled from the living room. The old woman – undoubtedly Mrs Hudson – shook her head with a chuckle.

“That boy! He wants his tea.” She looked up at Kathryn, smiling. “I will make you some once I give him his.”

“I can give it to him,” Kathryn proposed, leaning down to take the tea cup. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t think I’ll stay long enough to think about a cuppa.”

“Don’t be silly!” Mrs Hudson was already going through the kitchen, fetching everything to make tea. “Green tea is fine with you dear?”

Knowing it was a loss cause, Kathryn didn’t argue. “Yes Mrs Hudson.”

“Mrs Hudson!! Tea!”

Kathryn laughed, “Better go now, before he wakes up the whole city.”

“Thank you Kathryn!”

The young woman moved through the corridor leading to the living room. She was greeted by Sherlock sitting on the couch, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. He was leaning forward, hands going through a pile of papers.

“There,” Kathryn said, putting the tea on the table where there was room.

Sherlock looked at her, giving a quick glance over what she was wearing, before returning to his work. “John’s clothes.”

“I figured he wouldn’t wear them today,” she retorted, folding her legs beneath her. Looking over his shoulder, she noticed what he was working on. “Cold cases, huh?”

“I was bored a few days ago, so Greg gave me those.” Sherlock flipped the paper over. “He’s afraid I will tear the whole Scotland Yard in half if he doesn’t find something to keep me occupied.”

“Well, he’s right.” The genius looked at her, lifting an eyebrow. “Your brother told me of what you do when you’re bored. Drugs. Explosions. Experiments that will most likely end up badly.”

Sherlock snorted, reaching for his tea. “I am clean. I don’t play with fire. I have some experiments but they will _not_ end up badly, at least, not explode. Some of them smell but that’s what the fridge is for.”

A chuckle left Kathryn as she thought about that. “So, you solve cold cases.” He nodded. “Mind if I help? I’m bored too.”

The genius was startled for a few seconds before he nodded and moved the paper in the middle of them. They started to read, and discussed about the case. Neither saw the time pass by, or saw Mrs Hudson give them new cups of tea. Kathryn stayed dressed up in John’s old clothes, sitting by Sherlock’s side on the sofa.

By the end of the day, they had solved the quarter of the cases. Dawn had fallen, and neither had eaten. Kathryn stretched her arms up, yawning.

“Well, that was fun!” She smiled at Sherlock, bringing her thighs against her chest to rest her head against her knees. “We should do that again, sometimes.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at her. “Cold cases are on off days. When Lestrade doesn’t call, I spend my time on them. Or John looks for cases online, or in the papers.”

“So, if I stayed here, it would be easier to work together?” Kathryn smiled when Sherlock nodded. “Do you mind if I keep some of my stuff in your extra room? I’d go fetch it tonight and make this official.”

“As long as you pay rent.”

Kathryn laughed, standing up. “Oh, money isn’t a problem. I could pay for your entire year if you want.”

Sherlock looked at her move upstairs, realising he had acquired a new flatmate in the person of Kathryn ‘Cole’ Wathers.

 

## Honesty has a Price

Kathryn had been staying at Sherlock’s place for four days, spending her time solving cold cases or working with him on his experiments – which she had been having a lot of fun working on – during their time off.

Four days of nothing until a new case finally fell in their hands.

It was early morning, around six AM, when someone ringed at their door. Sherlock was reading a case and ignored it completely. Without a second thought, Kathryn stood up, wearing a long sleeved shirt she had borrowed from the genius the night before. Sherlock didn’t seem too worried about her sharing his wardrobe whenever she felt like it. When Kathryn had mentioned wanting ‘something comfortable to wear’, he had said ‘suit yourself, got plenty of clothes’. When she ended up in his room, grabbing the first shirt she could find at hand, Sherlock hadn’t even spared her a second look.

When Kathryn opened the door, she smiled at the man standing in front of her. “Hello detective inspector.”

Greg Lestrade blinked at her, frowning lightly. “Uh, hello? Is… Is Sherlock Holmes there?”

“Come in Lestrade!”

Kathryn took a step aside. “You heard the man! Come!”

The detective inspector walked in, still lightly confused by the woman’s presence. He walked to the living room, hearing the door close and lock behind him.

“We got a case,” he said to Sherlock, looking again at Kathryn, this time his mind set on finding out who that woman was. “Who is she?”

Sherlock stood up, moving the cold case to the side to glance at Kathryn. As if seeing her for the first time since last night, his eyes took in Kathryn’s predicament. They moved from her shoulders to her feet, which were naked. The woman was standing in the doorway of the living room, leaning against the wall, right to Lestrade, smiling lightly.

“My assistant.”

“Kathryn Cole,” she added.

Greg’s eyes widened at the name. “Ah! You’re Mary’s friend.” When Kathryn nodded, smiling, he turned once more to Sherlock. “I thought John was with you?”

“He’s _busy_ with Mary.” As Sherlock made his way to his room, Kathryn did the same toward upstairs.

“So she’s coming with you?” Greg inquired from the living room still, his voice strong enough for Sherlock to hear.

“Yes, she is.” The detective made some noise in his room whilst dressing up. “And _please_ tell me Anderson and Donovan won’t be there.”

“No they won’t. We found a body in the lake. I need your deduction talent before I pull them in.”

Kathryn moved down the stairs, wearing a white t-shirt and black jeans, her hands busy pulling her hair up in a ponytail. “Let me say, detective inspector, that I am glad to finally meet you in person.” When Greg looked at her, lifting an eyebrow, she smiled. “I’ve heard about you, from a… mutual friend. Praises and good words alone for your good work and exceptional help with Sherlock.”

When Sherlock reappeared in the doorway, he grunted, rolling his eyes. “Mycroft,” he answered to Greg’s confused face.

The detective shook his head but said nothing.

They put on their coat and boots. It was cold out. Winter had settled and snow would soon start to fall on London. As they followed Greg outside, the two partners were glad the man had come in his car. They jumped in with him and headed right to the crime scene.

 

Sherlock’s deduction had been fast and Greg was relieved he didn’t have to deal with another serial killer. At this time of the year, he didn’t want to. It was almost Christmas. He didn’t wish to spend his time in his office. Not this year. Mycroft had mentioned vacations at the Holmes’ house. ‘Visiting mummy’, he had said. Greg wasn’t against it. In fact, he wanted to meet Mrs Holmes. When he dropped off Kathryn and Sherlock at 221b, he headed straight to the elder Holmes’ house, leaving the two partners on their own.

Sherlock sat on the couch, wearing nothing but his bathrobe and underwear, as he worked on the case he had left behind when Greg had come to fetch him. Kathryn was beside him, reading a book about chemicals. She had dressed again in Sherlock’s long sleeved shirt and was deeply into the book.

It was silent in the room for the longest of time, until the book slowly fell down on the side of the couch.

Sherlock turned, noticing the woman’s eyes closed and her cheek resting against her knees. He blinked, taking in her slow breathing, counting them, listening to the way her breath hitched in between her parted lips each time she inhaled. Her arms were lazily resting on her naked feet, fingers spread. It was surprising to him she wasn’t falling or moving at all. Her positioning was a little off.

After counting her breath for the last five minutes – he had counted 51 – Sherlock returned to his work.

 

Eventually, Kathryn shifted beside the consulting detective. With a sleepy groan, she moved her body to the side, her head falling on his shoulder, her legs slipping off until her feet touched the floor. Sherlock looked to the side, his eyebrows lifting up as the CIA agent hid the right side of her face against his shoulder with a groan.

It was fascinating. Sherlock didn’t move once, observing the woman as she sought for a comfortable position. Kathryn must have been also cold. Her body quivered against him. After a few shivers, she moaned sleepily and blinked her eyes opened.

At first, she didn’t know where she was. Kathryn realised she was leaning against _something_ , or more _someone_ , but her mind was still too fuzzy to really put all those things together. She reached up to her nose and rubbed it, feeling its tip cold.

Then she realised her right arm was warm, and so was her right cheek.

“You might want to put something else on if you’re cold.”

Blinking again, she looked up, finding Sherlock’s grey eyes looking at her. “Hey,” she muttered sleepily.

Kathryn then understood why she felt warm at some places, and not at others.

She was sitting right next to the detective, pressed up against his side. A smile formed on her lips.

“Hmm, I don’t need to.” Moving her legs to the right, she slip her legs beneath Sherlock’s and moved both arms around his left one, linking her both hands around his. “You’re warm. Give me your heat.”

Glowering at her, Sherlock didn’t seem to find this so funny. Kathryn pressed her mouth against his shoulder, smiling at his anger. “Oh _please_ ,” she whispered, rubbing her fingers against the palm of his hand. It was soft, so soft, different than she had imagined. “Human heat is so much better.”

Moving one hand between his thighs, she buried it there, pushing his bathrobe tightly against his thighs. Her feet curled behind his calves.

“Don’t you want to share some of your heat with me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at her, his eyes falling down to her parted lips as she licked them. If the detective had been warm before, it only got better. Kathryn felt her insides tighten up to the detective’s observing grey orbs and knew she had to do this.

“Sherlock…” she whispered, tilting her head toward him.

Sherlock met her half-way, his hand tightening around hers as their lips finally met.

 

Tangled in the bed sheets and quilt, Kathryn held on Sherlock’s hand between them as she faced him. Her forehead was pressed against the upper part of his chest, her legs intertwined with his, and Sherlock’s chin was resting on top of her head.

“Enjoyed your new experiment?” Kathryn asked, playing with the detective’s fingers, occasionally kissing them.

With an answering groan, Sherlock nuzzled her hair, his free arm moving around her body, dragging her closer. Kathryn shifted in his grasp, moving until she was able to see his face. He looked down at her with a serious look, not a trace of love in his eyes.

“You look calm,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss his chin. “Calmer than before…”

Sherlock leaned down and captured her lips in a short but intense kiss, shutting her up. It had the desired effect on her he had hoped for. A soft moan left Kathryn’s lips as he tasted her lips, his hand moving up from her lower back to her long brown hair.

“I’m calm,” he whispered finally against her lips. “And exploring. Learning. Cataloguing…”

Kathryn’s eyes blinked opened at last, her breath not nearly coming back to normal after such kiss. A soft chuckle rose in her throat. “Hard to believe you were a virgin.”

With a smug smile, the detective slowly trailed one finger down his partner’s spine, observing how she arched into him. “Virgin, maybe, but not stupid.”

“I- I never-” When Sherlock pushed their bodies closer, causing the heat to blossom between them, Kathryn was unable to continue on. “Sherlock, y-you bastard.”

“So they say,” chuckled the detective before cutting her complain short with yet another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is still a missing piece I need to write for the next chapter. Since it involves a villain of my own creation, I'm finding myself a tiny bit at loss of inspiration. Certainly rewatching Sherlock BBC will bring some back. I'll try to post it soon though!


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